When Sweeney Met Lizzie
by DojoGhost
Summary: What happens when London's most notorious barber encounters America's favorite hatchet murderess?...Mayhem, of course! Alternate ending; Sweenett. Rated for thematic elements, some sexuality, and gory violence. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimers:** All copyright disclaimers apply. ST belongs to Stephen Sondheim, Dreamworks, Warner Bros., et. al. This story is posted purely for entertainment and no profit is being made (more's the pity...).

Also - I have not been able to read through all 43 pages of ST fanfic on this site, so I have no idea if this is an original concept. If another author has already posted something along these lines, I am not aware of it and no copyright infringement is intended. I'm also aware that some themes are common to other pieces - the heroes don't die, they escape on a boat, blah blah, etc. etc...All I can say is, how else am I going to get them to Fall River?...So, again, as far as I know this is my own interpretation, and any resemblance to elements of other works is entirely coincidental, no plagiarism intended.

**A/N: **This chapter has been extensively revised from the original ch. 1. The storyline is essentially the same; there's just more background. I hesitated to do this because so many of you liked the original; but...I just kept thinking it didn't make much sense as it was. The way I had it set up, it just felt like the relationship moved way too blasted fast. **Please review and let me know what you think.** If it's no good, I'll restore the original - even though I poured so much blood, sweat, and tears into this... j/k, seriously - if I've wrecked the story I'll put everything back the way it was.

I do apologize for the amount of italics...these are Todd's memories and I didn't know how else to effectively mark them off...

* * *

**1**

**1891. Regarding Sweeney Todd's Thoughts on Recent Events. The Escape to America. Mr. Todd's True Opinion of his Former Landlady.**

The RMS _Belle Harding_ prowed through the icy waters of the North Atlantic, throwing frigid spray up over her decks under a stygian sky. The sea was rough, but that was all right for Mr. Elijah Barstow. He stood gripping the rail, letting the spray wash over him, watching the ghostly silhouettes of icebergs slide past, feeling the wind in his unruly hair, inhaling the scent of the sea, the scent of freedom, recalling the last time he'd traversed the Atlantic. He'd thought then that he was heading home.

His name had been Benjamin Barker then. He smiled wryly at the recollection – the name felt foreign to him now, like the name of some distant relative he'd only met once. He'd sailed on the _Bountiful_, earning his keep with hard work as a member of the crew after he'd been found drifting on the open ocean on his makeshift raft. His savior, young Anthony, had asked no questions; and Barker certainly hadn't volunteered that he'd obtained that raft at Botany Bay. By the time he'd set foot on the _Bountiful_'s deck, though, he'd already left Barker behind forever and become Sweeney Todd. When the ship had pulled into London, Todd had raced up to Fleet Street, intent on finding the family he'd left behind through no fault of his own fifteen years prior. Instead, he'd found ashes.

And Nellie Lovett.

He shook salt spray from his hair when he thought of her, lying asleep in the cabin down below, and his mind went back over the strange journey they'd shared since his return. She'd given him a place to live. She'd given him his precious razors back – and she'd taken care of them, hidden them away and kept them polished and cared for them all those years, hadn't sold them even to provide basic necessities for herself. She'd come up with the idea to challenge Pirelli, to help Todd establish a name for himself, particularly for the purpose of getting the intended victims of his justice into his shop (and, Todd admitted, the time they'd spent preparing for that little performance was the first time he'd come close to smiling in fifteen years). She'd stayed his hand when he'd nearly killed Bamford right out in public, almost buying himself a trip to the gallows.

_That_ moment – when he'd sprung forward, unthinking, to dispatch the beadle – when he thought about it later, it was an eye-opener. That one moment had made him realize that he'd been away from civilized society for far too long and had utterly forgotten how to live in it. How ironic…when he'd arrived at the prison colony it had been exactly the same way. He'd left civilization and had to learn to survive in this new and ruthless society, and had succeeded thanks to luckily falling in with one of the gangs that took him under its wing, showed him the ropes, taught him what he'd have to sacrifice of himself in order to just get by. And now he needed to forget it all and start all over again.

That was how he'd known he wasn't going to make it in this world, wasn't going to be able to cope long enough to serve his justice, unless he had a guide. And, he'd decided, everything Nellie Lovett had done since his return proved that she was more than shrewd and pragmatic enough to do the job.

Besides – what better guide to have than one who appreciated his vision like no other could?...

* * *

_They turned from the window, panting and dizzy from a combination of their spontaneous waltzing and exhilaration over the plan they'd concocted. Todd carelessly tossed the cleaver into a corner and Lovett followed suit with her rolling pin, both still grinning and chuckling…Then Todd suddenly, roughly took Lovett's face in his hands and impulsively placed a noisy kiss on her hairline. "It's brilliant," he said. "You're perfect." _

_Her eyes shone into his – those dark eyes, so expressive, churning with emotion, drawing him in like maelstroms as he'd whirled her around the shop; he'd felt he was falling into them. Those words had not been the ones he'd intended. He'd meant to say "You're brilliant. It's perfect." But there was no taking them back, and he only stood dumbstruck at his own foolishness, held motionless by her gaze. She'd always been beautiful; but now her beauty was like a classical ruin, like a fallen Greek temple proud with the shadow of its former glory. How well he remembered her as she was so long ago, vibrant and healthy and full of great dreams. For the first time he really saw the ravages of the long years, in the hair-fine lines that etched her too-pale features with stories of too many burdens, too much hard scrabbling to eke out an existence; in the shadows beneath her eyes that spoke of too little sleep; in the way the shoulder of her ancient, threadbare dress kept slipping from her too-thin frame, silently confessing that she'd gone without proper sustenance on far too many occasions. Her hands – he'd noticed while they were dancing – were calloused from so much hard work, and what had it gotten her? She was one of those who'd been mashed into the muck and mire of life by those who ascended the heights of ambition on the backs of men and women who committed the unforgivable crime of being born and trying to claim a small place for themselves in this world. _

Just like me.

_And yet she'd never given up. She'd kept fighting for that place all these years, and still was; she'd kept getting up every morning and facing the hell she knew full well awaited her – the fathomless loneliness, the pointlessness of continuing to operate a business that only grew more redundant by the day, the despair of knowing she could do better if only she had the means to obtain something to work with, closing her eyes every night with nothing to look forward to the next day. _

_All of this, as it registered in Todd's mind, only made her all the more radiant in his eyes: he found himself wanting – needing – to avenge these wrongs by restoring what had been stolen from her, just as he was going to avenge what had been taken from him. And he knew just where to begin…Uncertain, hesitant, he reached down, took hold of her fallen sleeve, and slowly drew it back to its proper position. "When the money starts coming in," he murmured, "the first thing I'm going to do, Mrs. Lovett, is see that you have a new dress." _

_He made the mistake of meeting her eyes again, and instantly he wanted to look away; he didn't want to see the affection there – no, it was beyond affection; she was looking _into_ him intensely, looking right down into him and seeing him for who he was now, Sweeney Todd, broken and ruined and brutal, and still wanting him. And with every fiber of his being, he didn't want to see that. _

_But he couldn't look away, and he knew it was because they were of the same mind, he and Nellie Lovett. Just when he'd been convinced that no human being could ever understand him, the sudden realization that he was wrong, that it was still possible for him to be one with another in some way, was a shock. And it had felt so good, _so_ good, to dance with her like that; he hadn't danced in fifteen years…one of the dreams that had kept him alive during that time was of coming home and dancing with Lucy again, and now half of that dream had come true; and he found that the other half, the fact that it was Nellie Lovett smiling in his arms, turned out not to be a disappointment. And it had been so natural: they'd fallen together effortlessly, like the friends they'd once been, slipping easily into their new familiarity as he casually placed his hand at the nape of her neck, dipped her in the crook of his arm, playfully holding a cleaver to her throat as she smiled up at him…_

_It had all felt so right. _

_He was so close to her now that he was breathing her scent, he could feel her breath on his lips, felt her warmth, the hard form of her corset as she pressed herself against him…or was it Todd who was drawing closer?..._

"_You know me, Nellie Lovett," he said hoarsely. "We're the same, you and me."_

_And so suddenly that Todd barely realized what he was doing, he closed in and planted a hard staccato kiss on her parted lips, his heart like a great bird hammering its wings violently against the cage of his ribs. Lovett gasped in surprise, but she didn't move, she didn't look away; he found himself fastened once again on her eyes – questioning, hopeful, telling him the fear and joy and desire she was incapable of speaking. His hand moved to her hair – so soft – and he kissed her again, the same way, quick and furtive, and her trembling hands slipped under his jacket and rested just above his belt._

"_Mr. Todd…"_

_It happened again and again, these short, guilty kisses, as if they'd forgotten how, or might be discovered – Todd's hands skimming slowly from her neck to her waist and back again, Lovett tangling his hair, stroking his chest, grabbing fistfuls of his clothing, responding to him so perfectly he could no longer tell who was initiating contact. _

"_You feel _so right_, Nellie," Todd softly rumbled, overcome by the truth of that statement; and he soon found himself slowly running his tongue along the curve of her lips, taking his time, enjoying the taste of her, feeling her inviting him to deepen this new, profound, exquisite kiss; and God in heaven, he was on fire…she was all he wanted, all in the world; everything and everyone else could go to hell as long as she was here, his guide, his accomplice, his counterpart, his dear longtime friend –_

Oh God.

Oh God, what am I doing?...

_He broke the kiss and tried to pull away from her, but she protested by holding him fast, surprisingly strong – so he turned his head, felt her lips on his cheek, placed both hands on her shoulders – the bare skin made him shiver – grasped her upper arms, covered by sleeves, much better – and pushed himself away._

"_Nell…"_

"_Sweeney…"_

"_Mrs. Lovett…"_

_At his return to this formal name, she froze, and he was able to back away a step, but he was shaking from the effort of tearing himself from her arms. He didn't look at her, kept his gaze on the floor, as he said "Forgive me. I forgot myself." And he turned to leave, but –_

"_No," she whispered, grasping his lapel. "Don't be sorry. Don't go."_

_He half-turned back to her, but he didn't need to look up, to meet her eyes – he could feel them on him, longing for him, pleading with him – not to love her, but to only, only allow her to love him._

_His lungs seemed to have frozen._

"_I can't – "_

_He was cut off by her finger on his lips. "I know."_

"_Can you accept that?" he whispered against her finger, unable to stop himself from lightly kissing it in the process._

"_Can you accept that I love you more than my own life?"_

_He did raise his eyes then. _

"_I can accept anything, Mr. Todd, if it means you'll let me hold you."_

_He nodded. And that was part of their unspoken agreement – he never responded when she told him she loved him, because – as he told himself – it was all right to seek comfort from her as long as he continued to reserve what was left of his heart for his dead wife. _

_But he never protested her saying it, either._

* * *

From that time on, she'd been his refuge, his release, his opium; being with her was an extension of the thrill he experienced every time he sliced open a man's jugular, every time he looked down from his landing and saw her moving about the crowd with a sweet smile on her face while the two of them enacted their macabre secret choreography. He'd go to her when he needed to engage that sense of getting away with something forbidden, when he was weary of his life, when memory plagued him into nightmare and he needed to be numbed for a while. Over time, he'd found that her mere presence was enough to achieve this, like an anchor preventing his mind from spinning off into all-too-familiar horrors, and he began seeking her out to find this welcome oblivion in simply being near her...

And then…

_He rose from the floor where he'd been kneeling over the lifeless form of his Lucy, the cruel gash in her throat inflicted by his own hand. Moving across the gore-slicked stone like a man trapped in a nightmare, his head reeling, he slowly approached Mrs. Lovett._

"_You lied to me," he rasped, inches away from her, and when he spoke those words a terrible, sickening, incomprehensible ache formed in his chest._

_She was shaking her head frantically. "No, no I didn't, I never lied – "_

_And this, of course, was just one more lie._

_Then his hands were around her throat, pushing her to the floor._

_He was calling her every filthy name that came into his head, screaming them, shrieking that she'd turned him into an adulterer, blaming her that he'd become a murderer, his locked grip tightening around her neck as if he would snap it, until he felt her struggle for life begin to weaken. The infernal light from the bake oven burnished the gleaming wetness on her face: whether from her tears or his own, he couldn't tell and didn't care. He was racking with agony inside, for everything: for his wife, for the daughter he'd never know, for the fiend he'd turned into, for this woman, who he'd thought was a real friend._

_Her eyes closed at last, and she was still. Spent, quaking with fury, he let go his hold on her throat. "I trusted you," he whispered, nearly choking on the words._

_She'd hurt him. More than he'd realized he still had the capacity for feeling. That was how he knew that he'd come to care for her far more than he'd known, or intended – the sheer depth of how much she'd been able to hurt him._

_He didn't know how long he knelt there, cradling his wife's corpse, shaking in dry sobs over it; but at some point, when his mind began going back over everything that had led up to this, he remembered Nellie Lovett, and his teeth gnashed together as he let out a roar of fury. She had been the cause of everything – all of this – encouraging him to start over, trying to make him forget his past, cheering him on in his murderous plans so she could stuff those bloody pies…_

_Lying to him._

_He lifted his head to find her filthy corpse so he could throw it into the bake oven and watch her destruction…_

…_but the great room was empty._

_He blinked, casting his gaze about wildly. She couldn't have gotten away. She was dead. He was sure he'd felt her windpipe crumple under his grip._

_He gently placed Lucy's body onto the cold, hard floor and rose unsteadily, another harsh scream tearing from his throat as he lurched to the open door and up the stairs, nearly blind with rage…His feet automatically took him to the parlor off of the shop; there was a faint glow in that direction, as of a single lamp, and he instinctively headed for it._

_And there she was, sitting on the settee calm as you please._

_He pulled up short when he saw her, because the rage was instantly replaced by an awful, draining hollowness down in the very core of his being._

_He bared his teeth in a chilling sneer. "Not running away, my dear?"_

"_Nowhere to run to," she answered with a bitter smile, her voice no more than a wisp of sound from the damage he'd done to her throat, and even that made her wince._

"_You betrayed me." He'd meant to scream it, but the words came out in barely a whisper._

"_Yes."_

_He stepped into the room, wanting to pounce on her and finish her off; but he found that he couldn't approach any further._

"_You," he hissed…"you _incited_ me…in everything."_

_She was silent._

"_All of this…you…_goaded_ me into killing all those men – "_

_Her eyes flashed at him. "You'll recall that murdering the entire population of the world was your idea, love, not mine."_

_He was across the room in an instant, bearing down on her, his face an inch away from hers, his arms trapping her, one on either side of her head, hands gripping the back of the settee. "But I'd never have done it if it weren't for your encouragement…your _brilliant plan_…"_

_He was shaking with rage. And she _still _wasn't afraid of him._

_God, he despised himself; he despised that he'd given her this kind of power over him without even realizing it. Because even now, _even now,_ some part of him, some unruly part he wished he could slice out with his razor, ached to sit down beside her, like he always had before – bad day, no custom, too much memory, too much monotony: go to Nellie, be there with her, tell her about it, sit there in silence, listen to her low, rich, sweet voice saying things would get better tomorrow – wanted to ask her what he should do in the face of this horror, because she was his guide – wanted to fall into her arms and let her make him forget._

Help me, save me, numb me, soothe me out of this nightmare like you've done with all the others –

"_You made me grow accustomed to it," he was saying; but his voice was quivering now, faltering. "If I hadn't killed so many…I wouldn't have…"_

Killed Lucy. Like she was nothing.

_Even the thought didn't seem real._

"_If you'd told me the truth, I could've saved her."_

_Nellie drew a shuddering sigh, closed her eyes, let her head fall back between his hands. _

"_But you couldn't have that, could you?" he went on. "She knew me. You knew she would. She recognized me – "_

_His voice was breaking, and he couldn't go on._

_Nellie was slowly shaking her head. "Oh, love," she said, gently and sadly, as if trying to disabuse a small child of a dearly held but erroneous notion. "Even if she did…she couldn't ever come back the way you remem – "_

_He gripped her upper arms and shook her, raging "Shut your goddamned mouth!"_

_But her eyes blazed right into his, challenging, daring him. "You said Benjamin Barker was dead," she seethed, "because you're not the same man anymore. Just like Lucy wasn't the same woman. So what is the difference between your lie and mine?" _

_Todd didn't know how to respond to that, and he certainly wasn't in the mood to attempt to decipher her logic. All he knew was that he could no longer stand to face the impassioned boldness with which she was defying him, showing that, in spite of everything, her high spirit remained. And he'd always liked that about her, so he wanted nothing more at this moment than to snuff it out. _

"_I'll end you for what you've done to me," he choked out between his clenched teeth._

_But she only smiled and sighed, "I wish you would."_

_Todd stopped short at that, searching her face, trying to get her meaning. She looked into his eyes, tears glistening in her own, and breathed, "What d'you think is left for me now? Nothin'. I'm worse off now than I ever was before you walked back through that door. I've lost my work, I've lost Toby, I've lost…well, I never had you, really." Now the tears began escaping, making her grimace with pain as her wounded throat constricted; but she managed to rasp, "I wish I'd never laid eyes on you, Sweeney Todd."_

_Todd was frozen, loathing what that remark did to him and unable to do a damn thing about it. _

_Moments passed, Nellie weeping silently, breathing raggedly; Todd leaning over her, warring with himself, bewildered, indecisive…why the hell was this confusing him so much?..._

_Then she suddenly seized his hand, hissed "What the bloody hell are you waitin' for?" and forced his hand to the razor holster at his belt. Clenching his jaw, his blood boiling for the opportunity to finish this once and for all, Todd scrabbled for the cold silver that should be there…_

…_and wasn't._

_It had to be down in the bake house, where he'd dropped it when he recognized Lucy._

_Both of them stopped: their eyes simultaneously flicked to the spot where the blade always resided at Todd's side, then back to each other, confused, hopeful – for a fleeting second. Then Todd snarled "I don't need a blade for this," and in an instant had moved behind her, one hand below her tear-wet chin, the other at her temple, ready to wrench her spine._

"_More than your own life, you said…"_

"_Yes…more than my own life…"_

_She leaned her head into his hand, giving him permission. Oh, he was ready. So why did he suddenly find his hand slipping to her shoulder, his face nuzzled in her hair, his fingers trailing through its sweet, fiery curls?..._

_With a howl of frustration he wrenched himself away from her, hefted the first thing he saw – a small table – and hurled it across the room as though it was nothing, followed by everything else within his line of sight, until the only objects left intact were the settee Nellie was sitting on, motionless; and the armchair, into which Todd finally collapsed, exhausted, sweating, shaking._

"_Damn you, Nell," he muttered._

* * *

Now, standing on the deck of the _Belle Harding_, Todd swallowed hard and passed a hand over his face at the memory, at how close he'd come to killing her.

At the time, that night seemed to last forever; looking back on it now, it was all a blur, it seemed to have happened so fast. After sitting in the stillness for what could have been ten seconds, or ten minutes, or an hour, Nellie had slowly made her way to the bake house and Todd had followed her, and together they'd worked to destroy the evidence of their crimes. Neither voiced this necessity aloud; but they both knew that if the authorities traced Judge Turpin to this place – Toby had put the note into the man's own hands; but there was no telling whether the latter had notified anyone of his destination – the law would be all over them first thing tomorrow, when Turpin failed to appear at his daily work. Perhaps sooner – a few hours – if the stench of burning human flesh pouring from the bake house chimney attracted further attention. Nellie helped deal with the remains of His Honor and Bamford (Todd handling the beadle's spilled brain, since Nellie, even hardened to gore as she was, wouldn't go near it); but when it came to Lucy, she had the grace to leave him.

By the time he'd gone back to the parlor, she was sitting at the desk counting their savings – never placed in a bank, in the event speedy access became necessary – and she informed him that they had enough to get all the way to America if they wanted. Todd had nodded and rushed up to his shop, threw a few things into a valise, cleaned up and changed clothes, and returned to her, insisting they leave immediately. Lovett had wanted to wait for Toby's return, but Todd had informed her that he'd likely already gone to the law and they couldn't afford to waste time. So, in an unspoken agreement that seemed perfectly natural, even after everything that had happened between them, they headed for the docks and were lucky enough to find a White Star steamer to America, which they promptly and gratefully boarded, posing as Mr. and Mrs. Elijah Barstow.

There were unshed tears in Nellie's eyes all that night. Todd could tell that her heart was silently breaking – over Toby, over him. Part of him wanted to return the favor she'd done for him so many times, he wanted to comfort her; but he couldn't bring himself to do so. Her betrayal had wounded him more deeply than he cared to think about.

Now, four days off the coast of England, with yet another new name, the barber felt he could finally breathe easy. If a person wanted to disappear – so Todd had heard – there weren't many better places than the vast United States.

* * *

Sweeney sat on the edge of the berth in his shirtsleeves, gazing down on Nellie's slumbering face, bathed in the moonlight that filtered through the porthole of their shared second-class cabin. They could only afford the one – well, they _could_ have done two, but the wisest thing was to conserve funds as much as they could, in order to have something to set themselves up with when they arrived.

Sweeney's back was stiff from sleeping in the chair three nights running.

He'd seen her this way more times than he could count – deep in sleep, breathing evenly, sometimes smiling with secret dreams she wouldn't remember the next morning when he asked her about them. And sometimes he'd reach out and stroke her hair, or let his fingers drift over her skin, and she'd sometimes respond by mumbling his name in her sleep.

_Damn._ She'd gotten to him, affected him on a disturbingly deep level. He'd never meant that to happen, or even imagined it possible. Only the place she occupied in him kept him from being completely empty. Seeing his Lucy that way, seeing what she'd become, had hit Todd severely. Since that night, he'd been forced to be honest with himself and realize that Nellie had been right: even had he known that his wife lived, he could never have her back. Her mind was too far gone, even though she had recognized him in that last moment. It would never be the same. The best he could have done would have been to pay for treatment in a proper asylum for the remainder of her life. And, he assumed, his daughter had made her planned rendezvous with Anthony, and the two of them had gone off…somewhere. He hoped they'd be happy. Anthony seemed a good man.

So everything about his former life was dead and gone. Nellie Lovett was all he had now.

Todd stretched out a hand and softly stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers. _So lovely_, he thought...until his eyes trailed down to her neck, its graceful curve marred by the cruel, still-visible bruises from his strangling her.

His fingers traveled lightly over the marks they'd made. He'd been filled with regret and remorse ever since; and the civil, awkward coldness between them, the lack of contact with her, the formality they'd returned to, was killing him. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, the words coming of their own accord. But his touch lingered too long; she stirred, and her eyes opened. He jerked his hand away.

"Mr. T," she said sleepily. "Everything all right?"

Her hand went absently to her neck and rubbed the damaged skin. Sweeney knew then that she'd been awakened by the pressure of his touch on the bruises.

He suddenly couldn't look at her, and turned away. "I didn't mean to wake you, Mrs. Lovett," he whispered hoarsely. "Go back to sleep."

He felt her hand on his back. "You should sleep too."

God, there was tenderness in her voice. After what he'd done.

He wanted to reach out to her, but he couldn't, not until he had an answer. Not until she was honest with him, if such a thing was still possible.

"Why did you lie?"

He heard her sigh behind him. "You must know the answer to that – "

"I want to hear you say it," he hissed bitterly.

For a moment she didn't respond; then her voice came through the darkness, barely audible:

"I suppose I thought…if you thought your Lucy was dead, you could mourn her and move on, like any other man. And then, when that was done, you'd see me there waitin' for you."

_See you?...you have no idea..._

"Tried to convince myself it was all for your sake. Told myself that every mornin' and every night, only way I could sleep. Almost managed to make myself believe she really was dead after a while. But you were never the reason, not really. I'd waited so long…and then, after thinkin' I'd never see you again, after bein' alone with the memory of your face for fifteen years, there you were, like a bolt from the blue, and I finally saw my chance. So I took it. And then I finally had a reason to get up in the mornings. I almost told you so many times, but…you have no idea how terrified I was that you'd disappear again. For good this time, forever."

Todd said nothing, only tried to choke down the horrible knot in his throat.

"I'd ask your forgiveness if I thought you could give it," she said.

His breath caught, and he felt an uncomfortable burning behind his eyes.

"Did you really try to stop her taking the arsenic?"

Again, she hesitated.

"Knocked the bottle right out of her hand, I did. Thinkin' about that little baby o' yours, mostly. She just went right out the next day and got another bottle from a different apothecary. Took it in the middle of the night when she knew no one'd be around."

Finally, she was telling him the truth. He felt it, he knew it.

"Forgive me, Nellie."

The words came out in a strangled whisper, but he could tell that she heard them, because she sat up and began stroking his hair.

"I forgave you as soon as you'd done it, love. It's not like you're the only one who's done some hurt between us."

Sweeney suddenly whipped around and grasped Nellie's shoulders, but her back was to the light now and he couldn't see her face.

"I'll never hurt you again. I swear I won't."

She reached up to touch his face. "Nor I you, my heart."

He was overwhelmed, couldn't stand it anymore, too worn out to keep resisting…took her in his arms, fiercely pressing his lips to hers, her heart thundering against his own, both of them breathless in the pale light, rocking, rocking with the motion of the sea.

* * *

**A/N:** (covering eyes) Oh, God...did I wreck it? (peeking out) ... is it all right?... (covering eyes)


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

**The Landing at New York. An Unexpected Face. A New Barber and Baker Arrive in Fall River.**

Sweeney was having no luck at all in tracking down a ship out of New York, but when he saw Nellie jogging towards him, paper flapping in her hand, he knew she'd found something. They had already decided they weren't going to stay in the city when they arrived. Nellie had wanted to go to Newport, Rhode Island – one of her customers had traveled there and told her about it, a beautiful place, surrounded by the sea. But Todd had made casual inquiries of their fellow passengers and learned that only millionaires lived there. So much for that, he'd told her.

"What is it, pet?"

"Fall River Line," she panted. "Half an hour."

Sweeney didn't like being forced into decisions. He hesitated, his brow furrowed, not looking at her, considering the options.

"Where to?"

Nellie blinked at him, as if the answer to that should be obvious. "Fall River, o' course. Massachusetts."

Sweeney had never heard of this town. Perhaps, then, it _would_ be a good spot to hide away for a while….

"I already got the tickets."

His head snapped round. "You might've consulted me…"

She sighed. "Sorry love, but we still don't know where we're gonna settle and this is the best option until we decide."

Still he made no response. If only he had more time to think, if only their choices were broader…But she was right, they should keep moving…

"It's now or never, dear…"

Finally he gave in, responding only with a brusque, wordless nod. They set off along the docks, his hand resting lightly against the small of her back.

* * *

"OI! MISTER!"

Sweeney felt Nellie's grip on his arm.

These words could obviously have been directed at any man on the docks; but the voice…

"Hey, mister an' lady! Need a hand with your bags?"

"Sweeney…"

"Shh – "

But he couldn't stop her from turning around.

Sweeney had to grasp both her hands to stop her from bolting and running to the boy. He knew how she felt, but this wasn't the time. "Don't," he said, his eyes never leaving the approaching figure.

As the lad drew closer, Nellie reached out for him. "Tob – "

But he pulled back and cut her off. "Take your bags for ya, ma'am. Only a nickel per bag."

Todd bared his teeth. At least the boy was preserving their cover. "Yes, lad. Here you go. Why don't you take these to the Fall River Line pier? We leave in twenty-five minutes."

"Right, sir. They'll be waiting for you." He shouldered Sweeney's valise, took a stunned Nellie's bag from her, and started off; but after a few paces he looked back.

"Oh, mister – if you're lookin' to clean up a bit before you board, there's a barber just up that way," jerking his head. "Works on lots of the business men what come through here, wantin' to smarten up after a journey. He's got everything, he does – pomades and dyes, and such," placing the slightest emphasis on the word _dyes_.

And he disappeared into the throng.

Nellie turned to Todd, elated, beaming, tears threatening. "How did he get here?"

"I don't know," Sweeney replied. "Stowed away, likely." His face had darkened, brow creased, distracted, thinking. Little bastard had followed them, what was he playing at?...Working for the authorities, was he? Going to turn them in?...And, worse, if he'd been able to follow them, who else…

"Pull yourself together now, Nell," said Sweeney, his voice typically gruff; but it wasn't a rebuke. "We've got an errand to run."

* * *

The barber Toby had suggested was only a short walk up from the waterfront. Nellie purchased a bottle of black dye and brought it to Sweeney, who was waiting in a small alley behind the shop. He quickly shook it onto his distinguishing shock of white hair, Nellie supplying a comb for him. By the time this spontaneous partial disguise was accomplished, they had to hurry to make their ship.

Nellie took a place at the rail again, the light scarf she wore to hide the now-fading bruises rippling softly in the breeze. Mr. Todd was on her left side, close to her. Since that night on the _Belle Harding_, when they'd made things right between them, she hadn't known such ecstasy could be possible. He'd been different since then, and not only in the nights they'd shared throughout the remainder of the crossing – although they were rapturous beyond anything she'd even conjured up in dreams. No, it was in things like this: just standing here beside him, knowing that he could be anywhere else if he wanted to, knowing that he was there with her by his own choosing. It was when she woke in the mornings to find his eyes already on her; when he drew closer to her in his sleep, or called her "my dear" like he meant it.

Yet she was at a loss. She didn't know what was causing the change in him. She dared not hope that he was actually beginning to return her love – that, she'd been telling herself since the night of their flight from Fleet Street, would just be foolish. She had come to accept that he was, perhaps, incapable of that now. In the darkness of their berth, tangled in the bedclothes, in each other, she'd told him she loved him, and tried to tell him how much (though she didn't believe that anything, not even their deepest intimacy, could really accomplish that); but – continuing to abide by their arrangement – he never made any response. Never dissuaded her, but certainly never offered any encouragement. Sometimes, when they were lost in each other's eyes, she thought she saw something there, something deeper than mere desire…She couldn't deny that he cared, with the way he was treating her in general; she wasn't blind. But nor was she incapable of learning her lessons.

_I can accept anything, Mr. Todd…_

She'd said that out of sheer desperation, knowing it was the only way he'd allow her to be close to him. But she'd always hoped, in secret, that the time would come when she would no longer have to accept being merely his illicit little thrill, or his dose of emotional morphine. She'd allowed herself to entertain ideas, towards the end, that they were coming close, so close…Hidden thoughts, after all, hadn't been subject to their agreement.

And then, when she saw the look on his face as he discovered her treachery, as he held his dear dead Lucy…when she felt her lover's hands trying to crush the life out of her…

Well, any hopes that she might have meant anything at all to him vanished right then. She knew now that accepting was all she could ever do.

It was already miraculous enough that he hadn't killed her, that they'd reconciled at all, that he was here now, by her side. That had to be all that mattered. She dared not allow herself to expect too much. Not anymore.

_But then why did he spare my life? _she thought (not for the first time, or the last). _Why does he willingly sleep by my side every night? Why is he here with me now?..._There was certainly no reason for him to do any of these things. His mission of justice was achieved, and their taboo collaboration was at an end. He had no more need of her.

_Perhaps his long loneliness finally got the best of him, _she countered herself. _Simple as that._

She lightly placed a hand on his arm, and he turned to her and said, "All right, pet?"

And she nodded. Yes…even if he could only give this much, she would gladly take it, and be happy. And in fact, she _was_ happy, for the first time…ever, really.

A sudden presence on her right side broke her out of her thoughts, and she knew who it was without having to look.

"Hello, son."

Toby didn't respond, just leaned on the rail in silence, looking straight ahead.

Todd straightened, turned and faced him. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

Toby's demeanor was calm, almost resigned. For the first time, Nellie looked at him, and noticed a marring darkness under his eyes that hadn't been there when she'd seen him last. She wondered with a pang if they'd come of his seeing too much. _And that would be my fault, wouldn't it? I've done that to him…_

"Followed you to the docks that night," the lad replied. "Saw what ship you were gettin' on, joined up with the crew. Stayed down below shovelin' coal so's you wouldn't know I was there. Figured keepin' a distance might be best at first." Nellie thought his voice sounded older, too. Not deeper, but wiser, with the wrong kind of wisdom.

"How'd you know about that barber?" said Todd.

"Crew'd been to New York and back plenty of times. I kep' my ears open."

"Why did you follow us?"

For the first time, Toby looked up, his shadowed eyes cutting back and forth between the two of them. "Did you know what you were doing? 'Cause I've been trying to figure out if you're both mad."

Nellie's eyes began to sting. "We're not mad, son. We knew exactly what we were doing."

"And then you were gonna kill me, too, weren't you?"

_Oh, God…_

She looked away from him.

"I heard you that night. Both of you."

"Your mother never wanted that to happen," Todd snapped.

Shocked, Nellie spun to face him. Sweeney looked completely flummoxed, as if he'd said something he wished he could take back. But he'd called her the boy's mother, and in a tone of voice similar to that of an angry father. If the circumstances weren't so dreadful, she'd think all this too good to be true, one of her long-cherished dreams coming to life right before her eyes.

Sweeney cleared his throat. "Think about it, Toby. If you'd gone to the law, I'm not the only one who'd be swinging from a gallows."

At that, Toby looked away and swallowed hard.

"Mrs. Lovett made me promise not to hurt you."

"Why'd you have your razor out, then?"

"To threaten you into holding your tongue. And that was my idea, not your mo – Mrs. Lovett's."

She silently thanked him for omitting the rest of their conversation that night. _"As you wish, Mrs. Lovett; but if he still refuses to keep silent, you realize what will need to be done…" "Yes, Mr. Todd, I know, but I won't hang, I won't let you hang, I can't face that…"_

Toby looked up dubiously, focusing on Nellie. "Is that the truth?"

"Yes," she breathed, laying a hand on his shoulder, hoping they were almost past this. "As God is my witness (_oh, that's a laugh_) it is."

The boy sighed – too deep for his age, the sigh of a grown man who's been through a war.

"Are you going to turn us in?" Nellie said quietly.

"Turn you in?" he said, indignant, his voice strangled with anger. "You're the closest bleedin' thing to a mother I've ever had, I'm not about to see you hang. I wouldn't have gone to the law that night, not after I knew you were involved. How could you think I'd do that to you? Besides…don't think I don't know I would've swung too. No one would've believed I knew nothing about it, workin' there and livin' with you as long as I did. I was your accomplice, really, wasn't I?"

He turned his body to fully face them, leaning sideways against the rail, arms crossed over his chest, looking rather comically like a dirt-smudged gutter scamp about to make a business proposition to J.P. Morgan.

"So, will there be any more of that, then?"

"No, love, never again," said Nellie, and looked to Mr. Todd for confirmation. To her intense annoyance, he actually hesitated; but when he saw the look she was giving him, he said (a bit too wistfully for Nellie's liking), "No. Those days are gone."

Toby slowly nodded. "Well then, we'll never speak another word about it, right?"

"Right," said Nellie, smiling, ready to burst with happiness, and reached out to stroke his hair, feeling her heart leap when he allowed it. It was in that moment that she really felt, for the first time, that they were starting over, the three of them, that everything was going to be all right.

"Fact is," Toby went on, "the two of you are still the best thing what ever happened to me, in spite of everything. Give me the first real home I ever had, always treated me decent."

Then he smirked, looked right into Sweeney's face, and said, "'Sides, someone has to keep an eye out for you, Mum."

* * *

It took all day to get to Fall River from New York, including a stop at Newport on the way. There, Nellie gazed covetously at the gently rising shore, the skyline dotted with church steeples, breathing deeply of the salt air ringing with the cries of fishermen. But as the steamer approached their destination towards evening, trundling up the Taunton River, following a line of factory chimneys piercing the sky like the fingers of a harsh brick hand, spewing plumes of black smoke, Sweeney could tell she wasn't pleased. Perhaps it was too reminiscent of London.

"It'll do till somethin' better comes along," she said quietly.

They found a rooming-house near the docks, a home base from which to look for more permanent lodging. They registered under the name of Clarke, Sweeney claiming that it might be wise to leave Barstow untraceable past the steamship they'd arrived on. Each day the three of them would search separately, and each day they'd all come back empty-handed. Fortunately, the proprietor allowed them to stay at half price in exchange for "Mr. Clarke's" tonsorial services.

Sweeney had to admit that on the whole, things were going fairly well – they'd arrived in New York just the two of them, and he with the streak of white in his hair; and now the streak was gone and they were three. Good disguise tactics, especially for being unplanned.

They'd been there about two weeks, when late one afternoon they happened to arrive back at the rooming-house at the same time. Nellie and Toby had gone property-hunting together that day, and now they were advancing towards Sweeney side by side with smiles on their faces.

"Any luck, pet?" Sweeney asked, tired from his own fruitless excursions that day.

Nellie had a shrewd look. "Corner o' South Main and Morgan. It's perfect."

She insisted on taking him there right away, and despite his exhaustion, he agreed. He had to admit, the place _was_ perfect – a large area in front, just suited to a bakery, with a smaller addition on the side – just suited for a barber's shop. Upstairs was the residence; and although they couldn't get inside, the notice described a large parlor, two small bedrooms, and a simple kitchen, all furnished.

"Who's the proprietor?" asked Sweeney.

Nellie removed a scrap of paper from her sleeve and read, "Mr. A.J. Borden, Esquire. Inquire at Residence, 92 Second Street."

None of which, of course, meant anything to Sweeney. "How much?"

Nellie sighed heavily and named the price.

"Ah, Nell…"

"I know it's steep, Mr. T; but if we stay at that rooming-house much longer we'll end up spendin' more than it takes to rent this place."

Sweeney let out a long breath. Her logic was spot-on, as usual. There _would_ be a way to get the money, plus have some left to hold them over until the income from their respective occupations started rolling in...Besides, he was going mad in that rooming-house – so crowded, so much noise. And the three of them were in one room, and he found himself growing increasingly jealous of Nellie's attention. He wanted a place where they could be alone when they chose. So he agreed, and the next day he went out and sold his silver razors to a jeweler.

It felt like selling his right hand. The jeweler even looked askance at Sweeney at one point ("Are you all right, Mr. Clarke? You look ill"). But they brought back too much pain, too many memories of Benjamin Barker, of what he'd lost, of the injustice that had destroyed his life; and Sweeney Todd was beginning to learn that vengeance fulfilled didn't take a jot of that away.

Besides, he didn't think he could continue living with the blade that had killed Lucy.

His friends could help him one last time, by giving him the means to make yet another try at starting over. With the money he'd get from them, after paying the rent on the building, he could purchase another, less extravagant, set to work with.

When he got back, he told Nellie what he'd done. And she didn't say a word – just went to him and held him. She knew what his decision had cost.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Thanks so much again to those who have read and reviewed the first 2 chapters. Reviews are fervently appreciated, since they help me know if I'm on the right track, if this is holding your attention, etc.

Again, this is rated M for safety, chiefly for thematic elements and very, very bloody violence later on.

This chapter is a bit long, but contains lots of important stuff for the storyline.

There's a reference to the electric chair in this chapter. The first execution by electric chair was in 1890, and we're in 1891, so no flames about historical anachronisms ;-)

**Disclaimers:** See chapter 1.

* * *

**3**

**A Business Arrangement. The House and Family at 92 Second Street.**

**Regarding Miss Lizzie A. Borden and her Troubles. **

92 Second Street was a drab-colored, nondescript, two-story railroad flat in a respectable working-class neighborhood. Todd and Mrs. Lovett stood on the front step, awaiting an answer after letting the knocker fall twice. Nellie was fussing over his jacket, brushing it with her hands, smoothing the lapels. She'd reluctantly agreed to let Sweeney do the talking, since they didn't know the first thing about this A.J. Borden and had no way of knowing his views on discussing business with women. However, Nellie was to step in if negotiations got too complicated. Sweeney had no problem with this, since he readily admitted that her head for business was far more astute than his own.

She started straightening his cravat, which he tolerated for about six seconds and then grunted. "It's fine, Nellie. Leave it now."

So she began on her own hat, shifting the pins.

Sweeney cursed mildly under his breath and raised the knocker again, when they heard the bolts on the other side of the door being withdrawn.

He swallowed and glanced sideways at Nellie. "Look all right now?" he muttered.

Nellie looked him over. His cravat still wasn't right, his coat was too rumpled for such an occasion, and he was hatless. She'd tried to make him wear a hat, insisting that it would make a good impression; but he had drawn the line.

"Dashing, dear," she answered, with a wink.

* * *

Bridget Sullivan was washing the inside of the dining room windows when the knock came. It was "one of those" Thursday mornings – every other Thursday was window-washing day at the Borden home, come hell, high water, or midsummer heat.

Mr. Borden insisted on adherence to routine.

Ahh, but what did she have to complain about, really? Her pay was good, she had her nights off, and her duties were light – only took care of the downstairs rooms, and did the laundry and the cooking.

_Oh, sweet Jesus, the cooking..._

Bridget sighed as she placed the dipper in the pail and started wiping down the next window. This would be the third day in a row for warmed-over fish, and the ice in the icebox was pretty well melted down. She could smell the stuff from here.

But she had to prepare it and eat it. What else could she do?

And if Bridget were pressed, by an understanding ear, after a tumbler or three of whiskey, about the other things…

Was it the lack of modern conveniences? The dearth of simple creature comforts like hot running water? Saints, no. The Borden house was a sight more comfortable than what she'd left behind in County Cork five years ago. Like a manor in comparison, actually. Was it the fact that Miss Lizzie and Miss Emma always called her the generic "Maggie" and not by her proper name? Bridget knew they didn't mean any offense by that; in fact they treated her quite well, and Mr. and Mrs. Borden were always civil to her.

Bridget Sullivan reckoned she had it better than many other Irish domestics in New England. She herself had endured worse treatment before she'd come to work for the Bordens.

So what was it about the place that, in quieter moments, late at night when thoughts were hushed, made Bridget Sullivan's gorge rise?...

It was the other things. The things she knew were going on at four in the morning right below her head, right below where she tried to sleep in her small attic room.

If she allowed herself to think about it she'd go mad. What better employment could she get? It wasn't as if jobs were waiting around every corner, or behind every shop window. In 

fact, most of those windows were graced with large signs that read NO IRISH NEED APPLY. So she had to keep silent, she had to swallow her revulsion.

What else could she do?

Another knock.

_God almighty, the door…_

Lost in her musings, she'd forgotten about the first knock. Hastily, she tucked her pail and dipper around the corner of the door that led to the kitchen. Then she dried her hands on her apron as best she could and trotted to the front hall.

It took her a bit to get the locks undone – two of them, a deadbolt and a spring; and her hands were still a bit slippery from the window-washing. When she finally fumbled them open, she threw wide the door.

A man and woman stood on the step, and the man said, "Good evening. We are here to speak with Mr. A.J. Borden."

His voice was so low Bridget could only just understand what he'd said; and something about his wooden yet silky English tones made her cringe. The both of them were a little too…_pale_; and the gentleman's wild, electric-chair hair was a little too…_black_. Dark shadows made their eyes appear slightly sunken. They might make a nice-looking couple if they didn't look as if they lived in a cave and hadn't slept in a week.

Bridget swallowed. "What – what regarding?"

The woman produced a slip of paper, while the man said, "The rental on this property."

Bridget wished he wouldn't talk anymore. His voice was making her flesh creep. So she looked directly at the woman, hoping she'd answer this time. "Who may I say is calling?"

She was disappointed. "I am Mr. Jeremiah Clarke, and this is my wife, Patience."

Well, there was nothing stopping them from coming in. They hadn't actually _done_ anything. And if Mr. Borden found out she'd let a potential tenant go…

"Right this way please, sir," Bridget said, stepping aside and ushering them into the parlor, just to the left of the door.

* * *

"Patience?"

Todd and Nellie were sitting side-by-side on the settee in the parlor, their backs to the windows, awaiting Mr. Borden's appearance.

_"Patience?"_

Sweeney grinned at her fiendishly. "Weren't you always telling me to wait?"

She turned away from him with an aggravated snicker, but she heard the disturbing low rattle that meant he was chuckling softly. She didn't like it when he did this – brought up the past. Weren't they trying to move on? True, sometimes she couldn't resist a smile at a particular recollection; but things were so much better _now_. Now was all she wanted to think about.

The Borden parlor was dark in spite of the three large windows, heavy drapes impeding the efforts of the early evening sunlight. The aged paisley wallpaper and the dusky furnishings didn't help. It felt as if the space hadn't been aired, or redecorated, or thought of much at all, in about thirty years. As Nellie cast her eyes about the room, she realized there were no gas jets or electrical fixtures – just a dented kerosene lamp on a side table. It certainly didn't seem the kind of residence a landowner would occupy. Nor did she see any –

Footsteps on carpet, creaking floorboards opposite the parlor door, the sound of a key in a lock – and Mr. Andrew Jackson Borden, all six feet of him, strode into the room, closing the door again behind him.

Clad entirely in worn black clothes, with a white shirt and a wool jacket, even on this hot day, he had the appearance of an undertaker; and his livid complexion, lashless eyes, and sunken, downturned lips gave him the appearance of a man in his nineties. A well-groomed fringe of white beard framed his arrogantly jutting jaw, and he sized up his visitors with the dark, beady eyes of a vulture.

"Mr. and Mrs. Clarke," Borden said, his voice that of a much younger man, as they rose from the settee. He extended a firm but cold handshake to Nellie first, and she inwardly cringed at the feeling of those hard eyes on her.

"Mr. Borden," said Todd.

They waited for Mr. Borden to seat himself on the sofa across the room, and then did the same.

"So," Borden began, "I understand you're interested in the property at South Main and Morgan?"

"Yes, sir."

"For what purpose?"

"To establish a bakery, under my wife's direction (Nellie's heart thumped at that; even though it was only a ruse, she liked hearing it), and a barber shop under mine."

"Ah! You are a barber, Mr. Clarke?"

"Yes, sir."

Borden nodded thoughtfully. "Respectable professions, both. Though," he said, his eyes narrowing, "I'm not certain I like the idea of a woman running a business."

Nellie smiled softly – they had done well to plan ahead in this direction. Sweeney reached over and placed a hand on her forearm. "Oh, I'll be handling all the bookkeeping and making all the decisions," he said. "Patience will only be doing the hard labor."

He chuckled again, and Borden joined him. Nellie said nothing, only continued smiling softly, playing her role; but inside she was laughing like mad, imagining the state of the books if Mr. Todd, God forbid, ever took over the business.

"Will your wife be serving liquor in your establishment, Mr. Clarke?"

Sweeney opened his mouth to answer, but Nellie pressed his hand ever so subtly, praying he'd take the hint.

He did. "Ah, no, Mr. Borden. We do not indulge the demon liquor."

Borden nodded approval. "I see. That's good. My daughter Lizzie is with the Women's Christian Temperance Union, you know."

_Ah bloody hell, you've got to be joking…_

"Fellow came in here just last week, asking to rent a property for the purpose of selling liquor. I turned him down, of course. He got a bit violent, I had to threaten him with the police. That is what liquor will do to a man."

_How in the name of blazes am I going to run a proper shop without serving whiskey?..._

Borden spoke again. "You're English, Mr. Clarke." It wasn't a question.

"Yes, sir."

"Where from?"

"Bristol," Sweeney replied, employing the story he and Nellie had developed beforehand. Nevertheless, her heart skipped a beat. _Just our luck he'll have a whole pack of blasted relatives there and start askin' all about mutual acquaintances,_ she thought; but her fear went unrealized.

Sweeney deftly changed the subject. "Mr. Borden, you should know that our young son will be living with us as well…"

But as he went on, Nellie noticed that, while the old man's head was turned toward Todd, his eyes were surreptitiously raking her over under half-closed lids, lingering in places that made her bite her tongue in order to keep from squirming in disgust. Even after Sweeney had finished speaking, Borden made no reply, as if he'd fallen into a daze with his eyes fixed on her. Nellie felt Sweeney tense beside her and prayed that he wouldn't spring up and attack the man.

"Well, I see no reason why you shouldn't rent the property," Borden finally said, turning his full attention back to Sweeney as though snapping suddenly out of a trance. "The sooner I can get someone in, the better."

Nellie stifled a sigh of relief.

"We had hoped to move in tomorrow, sir, if you agree," said Sweeney, his voice clipped now.

Borden rose. "Bah, move in tonight if you like. All that remains is the matter of payment."

He asked them to wait while he procured the lease. On his return, Sweeney read it over, asked Borden to clarify a few points, and signed it. He then handed Borden an envelope containing three months' rent, in cash, and agreed that Borden himself would personally collect the rent each month thereafter. The old man seemed quite insistent on this point. Borden seemed pleased as he shook their hands and showed them out the front door.

"Right ol' charmer, ain't he?" said Nellie as they walked along, one hand lightly clasping Sweeney's elbow and the other playfully twirling the keys to their new home.

"Are you all right?"

"Me? Yeah, I'm fine, why?"

Sweeney's jaw clenched. "I saw the way he was looking at you," he growled.

"Oh, _that_," said Nellie dismissively. She'd been trying to forget about it. "Well, he's just a dirty ol' – "

Suddenly Todd stopped, took hold of her arms, and turned her to face him. "I don't ever want you letting him in when he comes to collect the rent, unless I'm there. If I'm out, you lock the doors and tell him to come back later."

Nellie smiled. How sweet of him. As if a landlord could be kept off his own property by a locked door. And the idea of the two of them, after all they'd done, locking doors for their own safety! _There_ was a delicious irony.

"Why Mr. T," she said teasingly. "I do believe you're worried about me."

He said nothing for a moment; but then, so softly that Nellie thought he might have been talking to himself, he muttered, "If anything ever happened to you…"

This threw her. Gave her a pleasingly fluttery feeling in the pit of her stomach, made her heart do a little flip. _That can't be what he really said…_

"Sorry love?" she said quietly, hopeful that he'd repeat it. But he wordlessly placed a hand on her back, and they were walking on again.

"How'd you know about the liquor?" he asked, after some moments of silence.

She smiled slyly. "How many parlors you been in that don't have a decanter of something or other about for visitors?"

"H'm," said Sweeney. "Well done, my dear."

Nellie sighed. "Just thought the ol' codger was cheap at first. Did you notice there were no proper lights in that room? None! Didn't dream he'd have a personal score to settle with alcohol, though. Don't know how I'm expected to run a respectable eatery without so much as a drop of ale or porter."

Sweeney turned to her, smiling. "You'll think of something, love."

* * *

Night fell over Fall River, and Miss Lizzie A. Borden stood at her window, gazing down on Second Street. There was nothing else to do. Father had started to ration the kerosene again, so reading was out of the question.

A. It stood for Andrew. Not Andrews, like the last name of an ancestor passed down through the generations, but _Andrew_. Lizzie _Andrew_. God in heaven, what had they been thinking?...

Emma had told her that both Mother and Father had decided to name her Lizzie. Emma was utterly devoted to their dear dead mother; but Lizzie couldn't possibly remember the woman, having been only two when she died, and she sometimes questioned the woman's sanity for agreeing to name her little girl Lizzie _Andrew_. But Lizzie had learned right quick not to say this in front of Emma, who wouldn't tolerate anything that remotely smacked of disrespect where their mother was concerned.

It had just been another one of Father's narcissistic whims, Lizzie guessed. Wanted his name to be carried on, and after two daughters he'd probably given up on the Borden name being preserved. _Who knew?_ Lizzie thought, with a little bitter laugh. Turned out Father hadn't a thing to worry about. Lizzie and Emma both would be keeping the Borden name after all. Especially since Father had found out about David.

Oh, how he'd flown into a rage! A butcher? Marry _his_ daughter? Never mind that the great Mr. Andrew Jackson Borden had himself started life as a cabinet maker, and his father before him had been a fishmonger of all things. What a short memory.

But Lizzie knew the real reason. She'd known all along, and it had become all too painfully clear immediately after David had left the house – or rather, been thrown out. Oh yes, Father had made his motives for refusing all suitors _abundantly_ clear.

Sometimes, in the dead of night, Emma would sit on the edge of Lizzie's bed and tell her that if their dear mother, Sarah, had been living, none of this would be happening. She would have protected them. _"But that woman, that Abby, oh no, Lizzie, not her, she doesn't care at all about us, has she ever tried to stop him? has she ever tried to help us? she's not our mother, Lizzie, she's not our mother, our mother is dead…"_

But oh, Lizzie was too well aware, how very much she resembled Father's first wife.

Over the years, Emma had rather helped Lizzie develop a passionate loathing for the current Mrs. Borden.

But she was right – Abby Borden had never once intervened on their behalf. _Isn't a mother supposed to protect her children?..._

Only Uncle John understood. But there wasn't very much he could do, especially living all the way out in Iowa. Lizzie knew that Emma wrote to him often, and sometimes she showed Lizzie the letters he wrote back, full of concern, and sorrow, and guilt for not being there for his nieces, and conjuring his dead sister's ghost. Emma was terribly fond of Uncle John. _He's all of Mother we have left,_ she'd say.

Emma called herself "the little mother", having taken over that particular role for Lizzie; but it ended up being Lizzie who protected her older sister. It had been Lizzie who suggested the change of rooms, so that Father wouldn't be able to get to Emma without going through her. Because, when it came down to it, Lizzie was the stronger of the two in many ways, although the younger. She'd proved it by daring to blockade the door that connected with Father's room, keeping it latched and shoving her bedstead against the doorframe. It wouldn't keep him out, but it would give him a message. _When you come in here, it's not with my consent._

Lizzie looked at the little clock by her bedside and let out a long breath. She sometimes wondered if it would be better to just stay awake and wait, rather than sleeping and being awakened; but she always chose to sleep. It was the only respite she had, really, because occasionally she'd be treated to rather pleasant dreams, about living in a big house on the Hill, with lights, and hallways, and proper plumbing, and having friends over to dinner...

She treasured those dreams, made all the more precious because of their brevity and fragility, the way they would dissolve like smoke amid the sound of the mattress creaking in the next room, the footsteps thumping down the back stairs, crossing the floor below, measured, deliberate, up the front stairs, the slow opening of her door, the purposeful steps through her room, the creaking of her own bed, and Father's hot wheezing on her face.

* * *

**A/N:** Comments are most welcome :-) Chapter 4 will take a bit longer to get up and running, I have to give this one an awful lot of thought...


	4. Chapter 4

**4**

**Setting Up Shop. Lizzie Meets Lovett. Mr. Todd Gets a Nice Surprise.**

There was no grand opening, either for Jeremiah Clarke's barber shop or for Clarke's Bakery. Keeping a low profile was the priority. The bakery opened first, as Sweeney still hadn't obtained a new set of razors. The trick was to find one of good quality, yet affordable. But everything he found was either of passable quality and outlandishly priced, or priced within his range and of garbage quality. There was one particular kit that he'd seen in a shop window while he and Nellie were downtown one morning: gorgeous pieces, with ivory handles; and not only the full complement of razors but shears, clippers, the works. He knew the tools of his trade, and these had been made by an expert craftsman and no mistake. But he'd only swallowed regretfully and turned away. He didn't need to ask the price.

So for the first few weeks, while Nellie set about establishing the bakery, Sweeney helped her where he could and occupied the rest of his time procuring various necessities and outfitting the small wing that would become his shop. Toby, of course, assisted Nellie with tireless devotion. At one stage, Sweeney even had to tell him to take it easy, ordered him to go get himself some gin and sit down. The barber even poured it himself. Nellie witnessed this and thanked Sweeney for it later, but he shrugged it off. "Boy's important to you," was all he said.

* * *

It took a couple of weeks after opening for business at the bakery to start in earnest, chiefly due to the lack of advertising. But around noontime towards the middle of the second week, Nellie noticed four young men, in wool caps and wearing what looked like work clothes, 

loitering around outside, peering into the windows, glancing up at the sign, looking away, conversing with one another, then peering in again and repeating the process.

She watched them at this for about ten minutes, then couldn't stand it anymore and went to the door.

"Hello loves," she called cheerily as she threw the door open, making two of the men jump. She smiled, raised an eyebrow, and said, "Somethin' I can help you with?"

When she spoke, their expressions immediately resolved into smirks, and one of them said, in an unmistakable brogue, "English, there's our answer"; and another turned away and actually spat on the ground. But one of them stepped forward and said "D'you serve Irish here, ma'am?"

Nellie's heart gave a little thump at the fellow's choice of words. Yes, she and Mr. Todd and her boy were starting over; but there were _some _fond memories of her Fleet Street past after all, and she couldn't help fondly recalling the day she'd shared her meat-pie plan with Mr. Todd, and his face had lit up and he'd swept her off her feet, quite literally, and waltzed her all around the shop…she thought she'd died and gone inexplicably to heaven right then, because he was really looking into her eyes for the first time, and smiling…

"'Course, dear," she replied with her sweet, secret smile, opening the door wider and gesturing for them to enter. "We serve anyone. Anyone at all."

The fellow who'd been bold enough to address her started walking right in (blissfully ignorant of her inner thoughts at just that moment), but his three friends hung back.

"What's the matter with you?" he asked.

"D'you really want to be givin' yer hard-earned money to English?" one of his friends said in a disgusted tone.

"Well this lady ain't like other English, is she now? Welcomin' the likes of us as she is. And it's not like my money's goin' to the feckin' Queen's Guard. Now you can go and do whatever y'like, I'm starvin'."

So they followed him in. And from that day on, thanks to wildfire word-of-mouth, "Mrs. Clarke's" was quite the popular spot for the Irish mill workers to stop for their lunch and sometimes dinner, as well as for local domestic servants to place orders for their employers, particularly as the prices were so very reasonable. The only complaint was the lack of whiskey, but it wasn't long before Nellie stumbled across a solution to that as well. One evening, a fellow came into the shop a bit red in the face – not, Nellie suspected, from a hard day at work. He plopped himself down at a table and cast his head into his hands as if his entire world had just disintegrated.

Nellie told Toby to mind things, as the dinner rush was just about to start, and approached the man, sitting across from him and resting her chin on her hand. "Y'look like your best friend's just died, dearie," she said.

The man only let out a low moan of despair and said something completely unintelligible. Oh yes, Nellie surmised, he'd had a few nips of something or other before even walking in the door.

Her eyes narrowed. "You look like you could use a nice cup of tea."

"Nnnnnuhwant tea," the man groaned.

Then she reached out, removed his hands from his face, looked straight into his eyes, and said, "Trust me – a nice _cup of tea_ will do ya the world of good."

Confusion simply oozed from the man's unfocused eyes.

"You come with me," Nellie said, and he staggered after her into a large pantry tucked away behind the kitchen; but what she set before him was most emphatically not tea.

Business picked up rather rapidly after that, as the denizens of Corky Row learned they could get a good dram of whiskey in the pantry at Mrs. Clarke's by simply asking, with a wink, for a "cup of tea". This little clandestine venture helped keep the coffers at just past full.

In fact, the shop grew on the locals so quickly that a particular band of them started bringing in their musical instruments on Friday nights, and the place would resound with the strains of rousing old Gaelic melodies late – very late – into the night, to the degree that Nellie, though amused by the shenanigans, sometimes feared the floor would give way under all the dancing and carousing that inevitably went on. It also made for some painful Saturday mornings, for which she usually ended up putting Toby in charge.

It was on one of these particular Friday nights, when Nellie and Toby were just about working themselves into the ground, and Mr. Todd was keeping up with demand for "tea" in the pantry (he still had not found barbering equipment that measured up to his ultra-stringent standards), that a familiar face came through the door. Nellie couldn't recall ever seeing the woman in the shop before, but she knew that face from _somewhere_…

Weaving deftly through the noisy crowd of revelers, dissipating clouds of cigarette and pipe smoke in her wake, Nellie made her way to the pantry, where she found Sweeney writing on a crumpled bit of paper as a random woman appeared to be issuing requests for certain kinds of liquor that were not kept in stock. "We'll see what we can do, ma'am," Sweeney was saying, appearing to be in great agony.

"Jeremiah," Nellie called. Usually Todd hated being addressed by his false name, but this time he looked grateful for any chance to escape the barrage of bartending duties and hastened over to her.

"That woman over there by the door," Nellie said, attempting to be discreet and make herself heard above the din at the same time. "You seen her before?"

"Yeah, and so have you," Sweeney replied after a moment. "That's the Borden maid, remember?"

Nellie blinked. She didn't quite like the idea of the landlord's domestic hovering about – especially when the lease was being magnificently broken by the little private club in the pantry –

And to her growing horror, Miss Sullivan was headed straight towards precisely that area, being steered by two young men who'd been frequenting the back room all night.

"God, Mr. T!" said Nellie, slipping into the use of his real name in her panic, and attempting to shove him back through the pantry door in an effort to shut the room. But he resisted, clearly not catching on, protesting "What are you doing, Nell?!" under his breath, until Miss Sullivan was right there in front of them.

The woman wore a frozen smile as she gazed at Todd and Nellie with the wide eyes of an animal facing down the barrel of a hunter's gun.

"Mishiss Clarke," said one of Bridget's escorts, "thish here's my coushin Bridey. She could ushe a cup a'tea, if y'know what I mean," ending with an exorbitant wink.

Nellie's eyes widened in abject terror, which went unnoticed by "Bridey's" young men as they pushed past both Nellie and Todd to haul the Borden's servant into the pantry.

_Well, that's it then,_ Nellie thought.

But it wasn't. Not at all. Miss Sullivan sat right down and poured a glass from a bottle of whiskey already open on the large table, draining it as if it were water and immediately helping herself to another.

"Sure I won't say a word to Mr. Borden," she told Nellie later that night, red in the face from all her drinking and dancing. "Aul' bastard. It's glad I am of all this," waving a hand in the general direction of the alcohol. "'Bout time someone got away with somethin' on _him_ for a change…"

Thus it was that Bridget Sullivan began warming up to the her employer's tenants, attending each and every Friday night soirée with abandon, relishing the company of her Irish kin, and even coming by during the day to "get some decent food, for a change," as she said.

Nellie found that particular remark rather interesting, but didn't pursue her curiosity.

* * *

In the future, Todd and Lovett would look back on the day of Miss Lizzie Borden's visit as the beginning of a most bizarre turn of events, the one point when they got caught up in something they hadn't planned and couldn't control, for once. Of course, in truth it had all started the moment Todd signed that lease, but they would always associate the whole grotesque affair with Lizzie's entrance into the shop.

It just happened – or had it really just "happened"? – to occur on the same Monday as the butcher was making his customary delivery. David Anthony, his name was: a polite, decent, nice-looking young man; but as far as Nellie was concerned, his best feature was his very affordable prices. He was down in the cold storage, stocking meat onto the freshly-laid ice, when Miss Borden walked in.

Of course, Nellie didn't know who she was at first and greeted her as any other customer; but when Lizzie introduced herself with a merry "Good morning Mrs. Clarke, I'm Lizzie Borden, your landlord's daughter", Nellie instantly recalled A.J.'s mention of Lizzie's membership in the Temperance Union and felt devoutly grateful that the pantry door was kept shut and locked during the day.

Miss Borden's handshake was firm, her smile generous, and her manner cheerful; but something danced behind her pale eyes, something close-hidden. Nellie recalled hearing her customers gossip among themselves about the Bordens (chiefly when Bridget wasn't there, of course): how A.J. was an outright ghoul, earning his money off the dead by buying grieving families' properties at ridiculously less than they were really worth…how his wife hardly ever left the house…how there had been a property dispute with the daughters about four years ago – something about A.J. deeding a house to his wife's family, a house with gas light, and hot water, and a proper bath, better than what his own children had – and how, ever since then, the daughters hadn't taken meals with their parents. Some of those who told such tales had, they claimed, themselves been grossly injured by Borden's tactics. Of course, it was only gossip and rumor, perhaps nothing more than the simmering resentment of the have-nots toward the haves coming to the surface…but having encountered Borden herself, Nellie could imagine him guilty of all these things and more.

With such stories going through her mind, she wondered just what Miss Borden might be hiding behind those eyes.

She also thought that perhaps word of the nocturnal revels in the pantry had gotten out, and that Lizzie was there to evict them on her father's behalf. But nothing was mentioned.

"I've come to order a dozen of your veal pies for home," said Lizzie. "Maggie raves about them, and Father says we're to have fresh meat today."

"Maggie?..."

"Oh! sorry, that's our pet name for Bridget."

Nellie was impressed that the maid had indeed kept her word and remained silent about the liquor. "Well, meat pies _are_ my specialty, dear," she said proudly. But she couldn't help noticing that Miss Borden had drawn off her gloves and was nervously fiddling with them, and 

that her breathing was suddenly a bit shallow. "Y'all right, dearie? Heat's not gettin' to you, is it?"

But Lizzie's head had turned before Nellie finished speaking; she'd gone still as a statue, and her shallow breathing had stopped altogether. And when Nellie turned to follow her gaze, there was David Anthony, emerging from the cold storage.

The connection between the two couldn't have been stronger or more obvious if it had been an electric current.

The butcher smiled and said "Miss Lizzie," politely inclining his head.

"Mr. Anthony," said Lizzie.

Anthony took two steps closer. "If you'll allow me to say it, miss, you look very fine today."

"Thank you, Mr. Anthony," Lizzie replied breathlessly.

"My my," said Nellie loudly, snapping herself out of the mesmerizing scene unfolding before her, "I suppose I'd better get working on that order for you, Miss Borden," and disappeared into the kitchen; but she hadn't quite reached the door before she heard the butcher saying, "I'll find a way, darling, your father doesn't scare me…"

* * *

Lizzie and David stood in silence for some moments after Mrs. Clarke had left the room. In the past, Lizzie had been shy about looking into his bright green eyes; but now, she held his gaze unabashedly, drinking him in.

"My Lizbeth," he said, smiling sadly, reaching out to run a finger over her cheek. It wasn't her name, but he'd created it for her. Said it suited her better. So as far as she was concerned, Lizbeth _was_ her name.

Suddenly his brow contracted. "Bridget told me about your pet birds, the ones you kept in the barn," he said. "I'm so sorry."

She swallowed and looked away, toward the window. "He didn't even have the decency to kill them quick and merciful. He just twisted their heads off. _Twisted_ them…"

She couldn't go on, and David took her in his arms, gently rocking her side to side like a child in need of comfort, both of them heedless of who might see, and she relaxed into him, allowing all her rage and sorrow and despair to fall onto him. His was the only touch that she trusted, the only embrace that was…safe.

"I have to get you out of there," he said softly. "I'm _going_ to get you out of there."

She let out a bitter laugh. "How? Are you suddenly so fantastically wealthy that you can pack us both up and take me far enough away from here? Besides," she added, "I'll not leave Emma at their mercy."

David's chin was resting on the top of Lizzie's head, and she felt his jaw clench. "I'll find a way. For _both_ of you." Then he pulled back just enough to be able to look into her eyes again, and said, "What about your uncle Morse? You've told me he's aware of your…situation. Perhaps he'd be willing to help us somehow."

Lizzie herself had entertained the same thought in the past, but it had never come to anything, and she told David so.

But he pressed the issue: "When will he be in Fall River again?"

Lizzie sighed, suddenly exhausted at the thought of rehashing all this. "Emma said he'd be back in the springtime."

"That's too long," said David, with a thoughtful frown. After all, the summer heat had only just begun to give way to the cooler weather of early autumn.

Lizzie didn't even know why they were having this conversation. She'd begun to accept that she and Emma would live with their father until he died and then be at the mercy of their stepmother until _she_ died, because unless Father made a will naming his daughters as his heirs, Mrs. Borden would get the lion's share of his money and the Borden sisters would still be unable to live on their own. And on Mrs. Borden's demise, she would certainly see that her wealth would pass to her half-sister and her niece. Not to Lizzie and Emma. They'd be left out in the cold. Literally.

David took her face in his hands, and his touch was loving but his voice was stern. "I won't accept that there's no answer," he said fiercely, and just as he leaned toward her for a kiss, the shop bell rang and they quickly broke apart as Mrs. Clarke's young son burst through the kitchen door to answer it. David turned, red-faced, and left without another word, and Lizzie's eyes stayed on him until he was out of sight.

When Lizzie returned later that day to retrieve the veal pies, Mrs. Clarke said "I think you'll find these to your satisfaction, dearie" (Lizzie found her way of speaking so charming).

"Oh," said Lizzie, smiling, "I'm sure I will," as she handed over some money.

"Nothin' but the best ingredients," Mrs. Clarke went on. "Best meat I've worked with in a long time, too. All because of that nice Mr. Anthony, o' course," and her eyes lifted just slightly to Lizzie's face as she pitched the cash into the till below the counter.

"Oh, yes," Lizzie laughed in what she hoped was a casual way, hating the heat suddenly surging around her ears.

"Comes around here every Monday an' Thursday," said Mrs. Clarke, looking directly into Lizzie's eyes now and speaking in a deliberate tone. "Seven o'clock both mornin's."

Then she smiled a little knowing smile and handed over Lizzie's order in a large box.

The only friends Lizzie had were David and Emma; but now, here was a total stranger who seemed to understand, who'd taken the time to notice what was going on with her and make an effort to help.

But then she remembered – this woman was her father's tenant. What if she was playing spy for him?

"My father…"

"Won't hear anything from me, dear," Mrs. Clarke replied, with a smile and a raised eyebrow that suggested perhaps she herself was familiar with the need for discretion.

Something in Lizzie wanted to trust this woman. She certainly seemed sincere enough…

"Thank you, Mrs. Clarke."

"Oh please, dear, call me…" here she seemed to hesitate ever so slightly – "Patience."

And three days later, and every Monday and Thursday thereafter, Lizzie was back in Clarke's Bakery, sitting at a table at seven in the morning, chatting with Mr. Anthony.

* * *

Sweeney Todd was horribly depressed. Even more so than usual.

He didn't want to be a bartender. He understood that Nellie needed his help, but he didn't have to be happy about it.

He'd taken to roaming the streets of Fall River late, late at night, after his work was done, and he'd think in the silence. His mind would travel back to Fleet Street and what had happened there. Nellie had told him, laughing, about the "do you serve Irish" remark, and how it reminded her of that day so long ago; and he'd smiled a little, because he remembered it too, so very well. _That was the bloody day it all bloody started, wasn't it?_ he'd think to himself.

It was those eyes, those endlessly dark eyes. It had to have been. She'd mesmerized him with them. He should never have looked into them like that. If he hadn't, perhaps he wouldn't have gotten carried away like he did. Perhaps he wouldn't have agreed to their little "arrangement". So many times, back then, he'd thought that particular resulthad been a very big mistake, because from that point on her presence only confused the hell out of him – soothing, exasperating, arousing, amusing, infuriating…

Conflicting.

_Blast._

And then he'd think of the way he'd lifted Lucy's remains into the bake oven, recalling the weird numbness, the surreal sense of a dream state, that had overtaken him while he was doing it. He'd tried to be reverent, gentle; but in the end, really, she'd just been another piece of evidence to be destroyed, hadn't she? Another carcass to clean up. How could that ever have happened? How could he have been so callous? Was it the panic of being discovered? The immediate need to clear out the evidence and flee? Exhilaration over finally destroying Turpin?...How could he not have recognized her instantly in the first place? He was supposed to know her, they were supposed to be connected; he should have been able to simply _know_, to sense her presence...

And then wrapping his hands around Nellie's throat like that, how desperately he'd wanted to end her life –

And _that_ thought bothered him so much he physically shook his head to get rid of it.

None of it seemed real, somehow. It seemed, sometimes, like remembering a story someone else had told him.

Todd would cogitate like this for hours and hours, finally returning home to find Nellie asleep, sometimes on the sofa in the parlor. She'd waited up for him.

On one particular night, he returned from one of these morose rambles to find Nellie sitting on the settee with an expectant air, apparently fixing her attention on the small marble-top table before her. She rose with a tired smile and went to greet him, placing a light kiss on his cheek.

"I have something for you, love," she said. "Hope you like it."

She took his hand and led him over to the marble-top. Placed on it was a large rosewood box that Sweeney hadn't noticed when he'd come in.

"Thank you, pet," he said blankly, as he sat down on the settee, and lifted the box's lid.

Inside was the ivory barber's kit. The full set.

"Couldn't help but notice the way you were droolin' over it," Nellie was saying. "Figured it'd be a shame to keep you two apart."

Sweeney said nothing. His mouth had gone dry.

His eyes were riveted to the razors, their white handles catching the firelight and glowing the red-gold of a sunset. He removed one from its snug velvet niche, opened it, flicked his thumb breadthwise across the blade. The edge was sharp and keen; the weight and balance were perfect in his hand.

"They're _beautiful_," he finally managed.

Then he came to his senses.

"Nell…you shouldn't have done this…these must've cost…"

But she was shushing him, placing a finger on his lips and leaning close.

"…a fortune…"

She kissed him lightly and rose from the settee, caressing his jawline with her fingertips. "Glad you like it, dear," she said with a wink, and turned to retire for the night, leaving him to his thoughts.

He watched her leave the room, and stared after her a long time after the bedroom door was closed. Then, smiling, he returned his attention to the kit, ran his fingers once again across the smooth, creamy handles, took each item out of the box one by one.

She'd noticed that he liked them. She'd taken the time to find her way back to that shop and get them for him. And she wasn't a stupid woman: she knew right well that the cost of such an extravagance would be taken out in more hard work than she was doing already. But she did it gladly, for him.

He was suddenly glad he'd looked so deeply into those fathomless eyes that long-past day, and he wondered at how radically things had shifted – how unexpectedly, now, everything that was so clouded and confused when he was alone could possibly become so clear and simple when Nellie Lovett was near him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimers:** See chapter 1.

**A/N:** This is the chapter you've all been waiting for. Don't try to deny it ;-) I just hope I've pulled it off...Let me know...

The M rating applies here...In the summary I say the rating is for themes and violence, but I decided to branch out a bit...It's not as M as others but hey, I'm old-fashioned...Anyway, I'm being safe here.

Again - I can't say enough thank yous to those who've been following this story. Special thanks as always go to my reviewers - your encouraging comments inspire me to keep writing!

If you've been reading and not reviewing - I'd really love to hear from you - let me know what you think, what you like, and what can be improved...

Oh - and if you're a Lucy fan, you're not going to like this. Not one little bit ;-D

* * *

**5**

**On Photographs. Mr. Todd Goes Home at Last.**

Sweeney Todd sat in his barber's chair, in the light of a single candle, in the dead of night, gazing at the photographs. Again.

It was a Friday night, and he'd gotten more custom than usual due to the new sign Toby had hung in the bakery window: BUY 2 PIES, GET A FREE SHAVE! Nellie and the boy had cooked up this idea between the two of them and neglected to notify Sweeney, who remained oblivious until two men came in, got shaved, and didn't pay, mentioning something about a "special deal". Sweeney went and found Nellie at that point and demanded an explanation, to which she'd replied "Didn't you see the sign big as life?" and hauled him outside, pointing to the large placard. He was far from pleased.

"You might've asked me."

"We _talked_ about this two days ago, dear."

"No we didn't."

"And you agreed to it."

"No I did no – "

"Well, you grunted and I took that for agreement. Honestly, you get so wrapped up in your own head…"

He did have to admit, though, that he'd ended up seeing a lot of new customers who promised to return as paying clients in future, so he supposed it wasn't so bad after all (_why does every single idea she has always have to be brilliant?_ he wondered). And the razors Nellie had given him…they were better than he'd dreamed, moved in his hand as if they were a part of it. Actually, he'd been glad of any reason to use them as much as possible, even if he wasn't being paid.

He'd decided he'd had enough at around nine o'clock and closed up the shop, sinking into the chair, in the dark of early evening, trying to quiet his mind. He'd actually started to doze off when the sounds of the weekly merrymaking began to drift through the walls.

He'd suddenly felt like getting some ale before retiring and rose, ascended the four steps leading to the connecting door, and stepped out into the bakery.

And as the sound and light burst on him, his eyes instantly found Nellie, smiling and laughing and dancing with one of the regulars as the band played a frenzied swirl of a tune.

_God, she's beautiful._

Mingled with his suddenly stirring desire was a surge of jealousy to see her having such a good time with…well, anyone who wasn't him. It wasn't that he didn't trust her. He just wanted it to be _him._

He started moving towards her when the tune abruptly ended, and she turned and saw him, and the man she'd been dancing with said "Ah, it's himself! Hope you don't mind, sure I'd've asked your permission but you weren't around, y'see…"

But Sweeney hardly heard him as he locked eyes with Lovett. She was flushed and winded, her skin gleaming from a thin sheen of sweat, her chest rising and falling rapidly above the bodice of her deep burgundy dress in a way that Sweeney appreciated very much indeed. He didn't think he'd ever seen her look so ravishing; he'd never wanted her so badly.

"Fancy a dance, love?" she said, still smiling, adoration shining in her eyes.

Sweeney leaned into her auburn curls and murmured, "I fancy carrying you upstairs this minute, my pet. That's what I fancy."

He felt a gentle intake of air close to his neck as she breathed in his scent. "S'pose work can wait a bit longer," she said, her voice deliciously husky; but then she abruptly left him and approached the corner where the musicians were laughing and drinking between songs.

By the time she came back, another rousing tune had started, apparently at her request, and the crowd was starting to keep time by clapping and stomping their feet. Nellie offered Sweeney her right hand and said "Dance with me."

…_that's when it all bloody started…_

The last time they'd done this, on Fleet Street, he'd been utterly entranced by her and terrified of that feeling, of what it might mean, of what it might lead to. But now, a world away, as she stood before him radiant with life and happiness and love for him, he chose only to remember how good it had felt, how _right_ she had felt in his arms that day.

He grasped her hand, took her by the waist and snugged her close to him. "Reliving the old days, my dear?" he said, with a sardonic smile.

"Only the good ones," she replied, her eyes never leaving his; and suddenly, almost violently, he swept her up, practically carrying her, managing somehow to thread through the roiling crowd without a collision. And once again he found that he was powerless to look away from her eyes, which smoldered into his own under ever-so-slightly closed lids, her lips only just parted, as if she were dreaming.

The Irish were stomping up a positive storm now, and Todd's heart was pounding in time like a thousand drums, racing as he whirled Lovett faster and faster through the room, their feet barely touching the shuddering floor, besieged by the manic pipes and fiddles skirling through his head and the increasingly riotous yipping Gaelic cries like wild ancient war-whoops.

Everything around him vanished except Lovett's face. At one point she actually let go of his hand to touch his hair, and his hand slid to her waist; but she quickly recovered herself and broke eye contact with him for the first time as she furtively glanced towards the crowd. Apparently she suddenly didn't want anyone to see them.

That was fine with Todd.

He steered her towards the door of his shop, knowing he could take advantage of the noise and activity so that no one would notice when, almost without stopping, he flung open the door, pulled Nellie inside, slammed the door behind them and locked it.

Instantly he was crushing her in a ferocious embrace, his arms like iron around her, smothering her with vehement kisses all over her face, neck, shoulders, across the top of her bodice...He felt her begin to sink and knew her knees were starting to give way, but he was holding her so tightly she didn't need to support herself.

"Oh my God, Sweeney," she breathed, her voice somewhere between astonishment and bliss. "What…I…work – "

"Toby'll do it," he said brusquely, and apparently that was all it took to convince her that she was not needed elsewhere, because she nodded and continued returning Todd's zealous advances.

But when she tugged up the back of his shirt and slipped her hands under it, running them greedily up and down the bare skin of his back, gasping "Oh, my love" tantalizingly close to his ear, something happened to him.

His own knees gave way.

He staggered and crashed onto the hard wood floor, Nellie falling with him as she remained locked in his arms; and Todd, on his now-useless knees, reached for an arm of the nearby barber's chair to steady himself. The room was spinning. He felt drunk.

_What the hell is this?_ he thought. It wasn't as if he'd never felt her hands on him like that before. But now…

It was just like last time – confusion, passion, longing, memory, loyalty, like great wild lions battling within him. God almighty, he was never dancing with her again if _this_ was what it did to him every time…

He went tense and pulled away from her, his ardor very much cooled by this completely shocking turn. He felt Nellie's hand on his face, and she was saying "What is it, love?" and when he heard her voice he started to tremble and finally realized what was happening.

He was _weak._ Physically weak.

Nellie Lovett was making him weak. And he couldn't understand it, because –

_Lucy never made me weak like this._

The instant this realization slammed into his brain, he jumped away from Nellie as though she'd thrown boiling water on him. In the pale light filtering through the shop windows, he saw her face, shadowed with uncertainty at first, then giving way to resigned understanding with a sad, ironic smile.

"We'll always be haunted, won't we?" she said.

Todd shook his head. She'd misunderstood his reaction_…She thinks the old guilt has come back…_

And then, to his horror, he asked himself: _Has it?..._

He wanted to explain but he couldn't speak, couldn't move; all he could do was watch her rise and walk away from him, just as she'd done so many times before.

* * *

He hadn't gone upstairs after that. Not because he didn't want to see her, but because he was certain she wouldn't want to see him. And in the dead of night, he'd opened up the drawer of his bureau, and taken out the familiar double frame.

He'd managed to save it the night of their escape from Fleet Street. He'd run upstairs to see what he could salvage, and just managed to grab his razors and sweep the frame from the table's surface, shoving them both into his valise.

Nellie didn't know he still had it, and she hadn't brought it up.

Now, as he sat there in the silence, he ran a thumb over the frame where dark brown stains crusted the ornamented edge: Turpin's blood, left there from its frenzied gushing, thrown all over the walls, the window, the ceiling…it had sprayed across the table, the mirror, the frame. Todd hadn't bothered to clean it off. He thought it appropriate.

He remembered staring at this photograph countless times before, when he needed reminding – of his purpose, of what Lucy had looked like, of his motivatoin to face each new day. But no matter how hard he stared at the image, trying to endue it with life, striving to make his wife's pretty face warm and moving, it didn't bring anything back: not her voice, not her smile, not her touch, not her scent. No matter how hard he tried to recall those things, all of them were gone.

Now, a world away, he tried yet again. But it was even harder than before, because instead of simply leaving a void, other images had come to take their place. Whenever he tried to picture Lucy's face, to conjure her voice in his mind, to see once again the light in her eyes – all that came was the ravaged countenance of madness, the broken, dissolute shell of what had once been so dear to him.

And how was he supposed to bring Lucy's former qualities to mind when the only features that filled his thoughts belonged to Nellie Lovett?

He rubbed both hands hard across his face. _Why do I do this?_ – he asked himself this question every time, and always came up with the same answer. He and Lucy had only been married a couple of years before their parting; they hadn't had time to grow into a love much deeper than infatuation. But he thought he _must _have loved her, profoundly: they shared a child; she had consumed his thoughts for fifteen years, the memory of her and Johanna preserving his sanity, driving him on, giving him a purpose and a will to live. Lucy had been the reason for everything he'd done since he'd come back from his imprisonment.

He stared at the photographs every few nights because he hoped they might somehow hold an answer as to why, how, he could throw all of that away. If he kept on as he was – "starting over", as Nellie called it – what had it all been for?

He rose abruptly and went to the bureau, where his new barber's kit nestled in its rich wooden box. _She shouldn't have spent the money,_ he thought for the umpteenth time. But when he lifted the lid…oh, they were gorgeous…He let his gaze linger on them and thought of her, lying upstairs asleep, soft and warm, waiting for him..._Ivory, smooth and flawless and white, like her skin...  
_

His first set, the silver one, hadn't been a gift. He'd purchased them himself as a kind of celebration when he'd opened his own shop. And he'd gone home and showed them to Lucy, all excited, and she'd smiled but the smile didn't quite make it to her worried eyes, and she'd casually asked how much they'd cost, because they really had to watch expenditures, especially with the baby on the way…

Nellie Lovett hadn't given a flying fig what the cost was, though, had she? Because she would only be happy with the best for him.

All he had to do was walk up the stairs. But if he did that, if he allowed himself to be any more lost in her than he already was…what had any of it been for?...

How could he discard his wife so easily?

He removed one of the razors, moved slowly around the barber's chair, lifted the leather band slung from its back, and began slowly, thoughtfully stropping the blade. Stropping had always helped him think, gave him a focus, helped him concentrate. His eyes fixed once more on the frame as the razor glided evenly back and forth…

"Come down to look at that again, have ya?"

Todd's whole body went rigid. His hand froze.

"Hear you get up in the middle of the night sometimes, when I can't sleep. Followed you once."

Without turning around, Todd said, "How long you been standin' there, Toby?"

* * *

"No longer than usual," Toby replied.

The stropping began again, more harshly now.

But Toby no longer feared Sweeney Todd. He wasn't sure why. Sometimes, in the quiet, when he was lying in bed staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to come, he thought it might have something to do with what he'd seen in the bake house that night. It had changed him in a way he couldn't quite define. When he thought about it, he supposed a person might witness just so many horrors before becoming numb. So perhaps it wasn't bravery that led him to confront the barber as he was doing now. Perhaps it was just numbness.

And of course there was the ever-present, overarching concern for the woman who had shown him more kindness than he'd ever known. He owed her so very much; and it was the sense of that debt that drove Toby finally to beard the beast in his lair.

"What I want to know," Toby went on, his voice quiet but strong, "is why d'you leave her to do this? Why d'you leave someone who's alive to look at someone who's dead?"

With a sharp hissing intake of breath, Todd spun around, gripping the razor, fixing the boy with a deadly, glacial glare. "Don't speak of things you know nothing about," he snarled through clenched teeth, his voice dangerously low.

Toby remained completely unfazed. He'd been expecting this. He merely stood at the top of the four steps leading into the shop, leaning on the doorjamb, arms crossed, facing down Todd's enraged stare without blinking. "You can't live in two places at once, Mr. T," he said simply. Then, shaking his head, he added, his disgust patently manifest: "She's too good for you. She deserves _so much better_ than you."

Todd turned away, allowing the strop to hang loose now. "Yes. She does," he said quietly after a moment, turning the razor over in his hands, still shaking slightly from his outburst of fury.

That remark threw Toby so much that he didn't say anything else for some time. He was shocked that Todd would admit such a thing. So he and the barber stood in silence, not facing each other, each keeping his own thoughts.

Then:

"D'you love her?"

Toby saw Todd's head move ever so slightly in the direction of the picture frame, and the man's shoulders slumped as he leaned on the back of the chair. "Where has it all gone?" he said, half to himself, it seemed. "What's it all been for?..."

The barber's honesty surprised Toby; he'd never thought the man would be so open with him. Or with anyone, for that matter. But Toby didn't allow time for any potential warm feelings to sink in, because Todd hadn't answered the question. So he spoke again, his voice quiet and firm: "That ain't what I asked you, sir."

Todd remained motionless for several moments – to Toby it seemed about ten minutes. Then, slowly, his shoulders straightened, he grasped the back of the chair, and Toby heard a long, deep breath escape him. But Todd still wasn't turning around. And he _still_ wasn't answering the blasted question.

"I can't tell, y'see," Toby pressed, not caring for the barber's wrath. The lad's mind had been begging for this to be said for a long time, ever since Fleet Street. "Maybe it's impossible to tell comin' from you. But if you do love her, you should be with her full-time, like, and not – AAAHHH!"

In the blink of an eye, in a single motion, Todd had grabbed up the frame and crossed the room, and was now dragging Toby roughly by his arm toward the bakery kitchen and into the sink room. _All right,_ Toby thought, _now's the time to be scared…_But when they stood before the sink, Todd let go Toby's arm, pulled the photos from the frame, tossed the frame itself on the floor (the glass cracking as it made impact) – struck a match – cast the burning images into the sink – watched them as they curled to cinders.

Toby was horrified. That hadn't been his intention…"Ahhh…Mr. Todd," he said shakily, "I never meant ya to go and do _that,_ sir…that's your family, that is! At least, your daughter – "

" – is happy now. That's got to be enough for me," Todd finished.

"Alls I meant was – "

But Todd's hands were suddenly on the boy's shoulders, and he was staring hard at Toby with glittering onyx eyes, his face illuminated a flickering orange by the flames still devouring the photos, looking every inch a denizen of hell. _Now I've had it,_ Toby thought. _He's going to take his anger about the pictures out on me, blame me for making him destroy them…_

"There are certain people in this town I don't trust, Toby," said Todd. "I want you to make me a promise."

Toby hesitated, unsure of what Todd was up to. But he nodded stiffly.

"If I ever have to leave the shop during the day, I want you to look after your mother."

_Oh._ The boy let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, and answered, "Of course, Mr. T, I already do tha – "

Todd's grip tightened. "She thinks she can take care of herself, and she can to a point, but…I'd feel better if I knew you were keeping a close eye out. So you are not to leave her side for an instant. Especially on rent collection day, when Mr. Borden comes by. Understood?"

Oh yes. _Very_ understood. Toby smiled and nodded, but his voice was serious as he replied, "Count on me, sir."

A corner of Sweeney's mouth lifted ever so slightly. "I know I can, lad."

They waited together in silence, both watching the little sink-fire until it went out of its own accord, having consumed as much as it could of the photograph paper. Then Todd scooped up the charred remains and tossed them into the oven, to mingle and be discarded with the rest of the ashes next day. Toby picked up the shattered frame, planning to surreptitiously toss it into the river first thing in the morning.

When they both returned together to the upstairs parlor, Toby paused at the door of his room.

"Mr. Todd," he began, softly, because he knew his mum was asleep.

"What?"

"Just want to thank you."

"What for?"

"Answerin' my question."

* * *

Sweeney entered the room he shared with Nellie, saw her in the darkness, sleeping on her back.

_Sorry I kept you waiting again, my love._

He sat down on his side of the bed, keeping his eyes on her. Just staring. But after a time, staring wasn't enough, and he reached out, hoping he wouldn't wake her, and placed his right hand over her heart. His eyes closed, and for unmeasured moments all he knew was the steady beating of the heart beneath his hand.

And was appallingly aware, once more, of how near it had come, not so long ago, to stopping beneath the very same hand.

The closest Sweeney Todd ever came to shedding tears took the form of a painful knot deep in his throat and a hot, stinging burn behind his eyes. The knot was coming now, as he opened his eyes and looked at her, feeling her heart, feeling his hand rise and fall with her breathing. He was so grateful he'd failed, so grateful she was here.

And the burn behind his eyes kicked in as some final bastion within him came crashing down and he acknowledged at last, beyond doubt, beyond reason, that he did love her – he loved her wildly, insanely, devoutly, painfully.

_That damned boy. That damned Toby._ Todd didn't know whether he should throttle the kid or hug him when he saw him again.

He leaned towards her, brushing aside the neck of her nightdress just enough to place his lips where his hand had been, over her heart, just hovering at first, taking time to bask in her scent, by now so familiar but always, always so intoxicating…his lips met her warm skin, lingering with the pulse below, all the while choking back the hard, frozen tears behind his dry and searing eyes.

Her arms slid around him, and he wasn't sorry he'd woken her. Nor did she seem to be. She twined her fingers in his hair as he slipped one hand beneath her shoulder blades, letting the other glide slowly and lightly down her side, over her hip, thigh, then back up again…it was entrancing to feel the way the soft fabric moved over her frame...He felt her pulse accelerate under his increasingly fervent kisses, and turned his head to rest against her, so he could hear the sound her heart was making.

"I love you," she breathed into his hair. "I love you so much it hurts."

He raised his head at that, and met her eyes, exquisitely dark, filled with ravenous longing, desire and hunger and absolute devotion written in her every feature; the space between them thick with their past, with shared regrets, with depths of emotion unspoken, unresolved.

No one else had ever looked at him the way Nellie Lovett did. Not ever.

The words were screaming in his head. They just wouldn't come out of his mouth.

She smiled, but he could tell she was sad and trying not to be. "I know you can't say the same to me. I've known that for a long time. It's all right."

_No,_ thought Sweeney, _it really isn't._

He bent forward and just touched his lips to hers, unable to close his eyes because her desperate gaze continued to fascinate him, and he saw tears begin slipping from her eyes and slowly sliding down her cheeks. The sight of them captivated him completely, the sight of her releasing the tears he could not, and he captured them with his lips, his tongue, savoring their salty taste because they had come from her, from within her, and that thought aroused him to no end. He found himself torn between feeling unsettled over her distress, glad for a chance to comfort her, and almost hoping that she would keep crying, so he could continue literally drinking her in like this.

But finally he lifted his head, and her eyes were now closed. He brushed away a stray wisp of hair across her forehead, caressed her glorious features with his fingertips as he said, "No ghosts, my Nell. Only me and you."

He tried to place an emphasis on _you_ so she would know that nothing stood between them anymore. He knew it wasn't exactlywhat she wanted to hear; but she responded nonetheless by tightening her arms around him and uttering his name in a tone he'd never heard from anyone else. Not ever.

He took the hand tangled in his hair and pressed his lips to her palm, traced a slow, light line of kisses along the inside of her arm, languidly worked his way up to nip lightly at her neck…nuzzled the spot just where her shoulder began, because he knew it drove her mad, and she began to relax into him with a long sigh.

The words were screaming in his mind, but he couldn't say them, so he tried to show her instead, as best he could, silently willing her to know, to understand what he was trying to tell her.

"I want to be lost in you," he whispered, staying on that sensitive flesh, teasing it with his breath, his lips, his tongue, feeling her breath quicken, feeling her begin to writhe in delight in his arms. "I want to die in you…Eleanor…"

* * *

She never imagined that the mere speaking of her name could send her into such a rapture.

She wondered vaguely if she would ever stop experiencing this reaction, identical every time he approached her: this faintness, this delicious lightheadedness, this sense that she was utterly powerless to resist her own almost desperate need for him.

How she'd ached for him today, all day long. Some days were like that, without reason, the thought of him imprisoning her mind every moment, and she relished the sense of desire building in her until it could finally and only be released by him. But the closer he was, the worse the ache became, somehow: the deeper their intimacy, the more intense the longing, until it became a source of profound, exquisite torment.

She yielded completely under his touch. She always did. _"Eleanor,"_ he repeated, his voice almost a question, as if she weren't there with him but somewhere far off, and he was searching, calling her, asking her to find him. Her body answered of its own accord as she twined herself around him, rolled her hips against his – gently, at first, but again more firm and eager when he responded in kind; and he clutched her to him madly as if he feared she might vanish. "I'm here, love," she whispered…

He was surprising her tonight. Something was different about him: fierce and heated as always, as if he couldn't get enough of her; yet at the same time strangely hesitant and gentle. As if he was afraid of doing something wrong, of displeasing her in some way.

As if it was the first time they'd done this.

She decided to fantasize that this was an indication he was beginning to fall in love with her.

She felt his body asking her to receive him – and that was another thing he'd never done before, he'd always just gone right ahead, not that she'd ever minded – as if she would refuse him, as if she possibly could; and she murmured "Yes, my love" and opened herself to him, in every way, gave herself over with abandon, drew him in, enveloped him with total trust, desperately needing to slake her thirst but only becoming more and more parched for him as he repeatedly moaned her name into her hair, her neck, her shoulders…

Immersed in the scent of their passion, in the sound of their voices crying out for each other, she fought to withstand the unrelenting assault of ecstasy surging through her, to stave off its end, make it last; but the end was what she hungered for, and she knew she couldn't hold on much longer, not with his hands searching every inch of her in the darkness, not with him quaking with desire in her arms, not with him moving with such a perfect marriage of lust and tenderness and –

_love_

_He loves me,_ she told herself, _he loves me, he loves me –_

All control fled from her as the spasms erupted, rocking her powerfully, and she roughly wrenched Todd's head towards her, plunging him into a deep kiss to stop herself from screaming. He responded with fire, digging his fingertips into the small of her back, intensifying her convulsions of pleasure, and a moment later was howling _"Eleanor!"_ into the pillow in the throes of his own trembling release.

They held each other, motionless, securing each other in the fragile descent from the culmination of their passion. As their breathing slowed, Sweeney let his head rest just below Nellie's throat, and she felt each stage of his fall into a peaceful sleep. She kept her arms draped around him and leaned into him, grateful, sated, and bit back the tears that once more threatened to engulf her because of the lie she'd told herself.

No ghosts, he'd said. If only she could believe that were true.

He wouldn't ever love her. Not the way she wanted him to.

Not ever.

* * *

Sweeney stayed awake as long as he could, listening to the strong rhythm of his Eleanor's heart, hearing the blood rush through her, hearing her lungs fill and deplete. Never in his life had he felt like this, and he wondered, as angrily as was possible while bathing in this euphoria, how he'd missed her – why, _why,_ all those long years ago, they hadn't found each other sooner, before they'd both married others. How different things might have been…

_I love you, my Nell._

He'd told her he wanted to be lost in her; but now, as he lay wrapped in her arms in the quiet dark, on the brink of sleep, he felt he'd actually been found. As if he'd finally, truly, come to the home he'd been seeking for so long.

This was his life now.

She was his life.

* * *

The next day, Nellie was first shocked, then ecstatic, when Sweeney suggested the three of them go and have their photograph done.

When the picture finally came back, she almost cried with happiness. There she was, sitting in a chair, with Mr. Todd and Toby standing behind her: Mr. Todd on the left, with a hand on Nellie's shoulder, and Toby on the right, resting an elbow on the chair-back. Nellie, of course, placed the photo in a new frame and hung it prominently behind the counter of the bakery. But when she saw Sweeney do the same on a wall in his shop, she flung her arms around him in glee and said, "Thank you, Sweeney."

And when a customer came into Mr. Todd's shop one day soon after, he noticed the photograph and said, "Ah, Mr. Clarke, your family?"

"Yes, my wife and son," he replied, to preserve their cover. Only to preserve their cover.

"Lovely," the man said. And before Sweeney realized what he was doing, he showed the man the razor he was about to shave him with and said, "These were a gift from my wife." And he wondered why his heart nearly stopped when he said that.

"Ah!" the man replied. "A marvelous gift. I'm a confirmed bachelor, Mr. Clarke, but if you don't mind my saying it, I envy you. To give such an extraordinary gift…If I might be so bold as to say it, sir, your lady must be a wonderful wife."

"That she is, sir," said Todd, coming over with the lather but cutting his eyes to the picture. "That she is."

* * *

**A/N:** I was aiming for steamy yet subtle, not too technical, leave something to the imagination...Let me know if I succeeded...


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimers:** See chapter 1.

**A/N:** Well, so glad to see that ch. 5 is so popular ;-) Oddly, it has more hits than ch. 4, hmmm...

Further research has revealed that David Anthony was the son of a meat-packing mogul, so there **is** a butcher connection after all...I must've read that somewhere and it stuck in my head...

There's a reference to three dollars in here. Back then, 3 had the purchasing power of approximately 70-80 today.

As always - thanks for taking the time to read this - especially to my reviewers!

* * *

**6**

**1892. Rent Day.**

Winter's chill descended on Fall River in earnest. Early on a Monday morning towards the beginning of February, Lizzie Borden and David Anthony were sitting, as usual, at a corner table at Clarke's, away from the windows, holding hands and chatting in low voices; and Nellie Lovett and Toby Ragg were, as usual, leaving them to themselves.

Toby rather liked Miss Lizzie. She had a pleasant and ready laugh, and she never neglected to bring him some little treat, usually in the form of the most delectable chocolate Toby had ever tasted. Plus, she had allowed him and his Corky Row chums to go and raid the Borden pear tree in the warmer weather when Mr. and Mrs. Borden were across the river visiting their properties in Swansea. Toby felt bad for Miss Lizzie – Mrs. Lovett had told him about that lady's fondness for Mr. Anthony, and the fact that Mr. Borden wouldn't allow them to marry; and Toby loved his mum more than ever for her kindness in giving them a place to meet.

However, he admitted with a little smirk, it also didn't hurt that Mr. Anthony had for some time been selling at a discount in return for said kindness.

Toby was distracted from these thoughts, and from his customary morning task of setting tables, by the sound of the shop bell and a blast of cold air. He looked up to see Mr. Todd entering, stomping snow off his boots, wearing his typical scowl and holding a large bouquet of white snowdrops and pink-tinged Christmas roses in his hand.

Things had been different – better –between Toby and Mr. Todd since the night of the photograph-burning some months back. The barber spoke to the boy more often now, and in tones slightly less irritated than usual. Toby supposed it must be because they had an understanding now, a shared secret and a common purpose. And so far, the barber's behavior towards Mrs. Lovett had only confirmed what Toby had seen him silently admit that night: Todd almost-smiled much more often, he appeared less hesitant about showing affection to Mrs. Lovett, and he seemed more solicitous towards her. Like now, coming in with flowers. Mr. Todd had started doing that every once in a while, on no special occasion. Toby was glad for his mum, because he knew how she'd craved that kind of treatment from Mr. Todd. It was a nice change from Fleet Street, where Toby had seen her try her damnedest to pretend that she wasn't in abject misery (chiefly for his sake, he knew), or heard her cry herself to sleep more nights than he cared to recall. She was so much happier now. Still – Toby had already made up his mind that if Mr. Todd changed at all, if he physically harmed Mrs. Lovett, or broke her heart, he would kill the man without a blink.

Todd was approaching the counter just as Mrs. Lovett was coming out of the kitchen, and her whole face brightened when she saw him. Toby used to find it difficult to understand how a lovely and smart lady like his mum could possibly love a scoundrel like Mr. Todd; but the bake house on Fleet Street had pretty much explained everything. Toby had had plenty of time to think while feeding the boilers on the _Belle Harding_ as it steamed across the Atlantic; and he'd tried during those long days and nights to convince himself that Mr. Todd had forced her into it, that the whole thing had been his idea and he'd threatened her into assisting him. That his mum had been another of the barber's innocent victims. But deep down, Toby knew that wasn't true. His Mrs. Lovett wasn't one to be threatened or browbeaten or manipulated – she was strong and determined and shrewd. Oh yes – Toby knew, when he was honest with himself, that his mum hadn't been forced into anything. The thought crossed his mind that it might have been her idea – but it only crossed; he couldn't bring himself to believe it. Not that. But he felt he finally had to accept that, at the very least, she'd agreed of her own free will to a plan of Todd's devising. And that made the two of them the same, really, didn't it?...

Even now, Toby often wondered how he was able to justify his mum's actions. And he thought it was probably because he understood why she'd done it: she loved Mr. Todd, and she wanted a better life for all three of them; and she would do anything – anything – to have both when the opportunity presented itself. Toby had to admit – those pies had bought him a continually full stomach and more than one new pair of shoes, and he couldn't remember ever having either at any previous time in his life.

He continued to busy himself with the tables while ruminating on these matters; but he couldn't help overhearing Mr. Todd as he presented the flowers to Mrs. Lovett. "Morning, dear," he said, kissing her lightly on the cheek.

"They're lovely," she gasped, clearly delighted, as she took them from him and breathed in their scent.

"They bloom in the darkest time of winter," said Todd, leaning close to her and speaking in an undertone so no one could hear; but Toby heard, perhaps because the table he was setting just happened to be a bit too close. "Life in the dead, frozen ground, where no life seems possible. Like what you are to me."

Toby was so astonished to hear Mr. Todd waxing poetic like this that the plate he was holding slipped onto the table with a clatter. He shifted his eyes to the counter, where he saw his mum blush positively scarlet and heard her breathlessly say "Thankyoulove" just before vanishing into the kitchen.

Todd was smiling in a self-satisfied kind of way as he turned his attention on Toby and said, "I'll want to see you in my shop in a minute."

"Yes sir," Toby replied, thinking _He knows I heard him and I've had it now, _as he watched Mr. Todd approach Miss Borden and Mr. Anthony.

The barber cleared his throat and said, "Sorry to intrude, but Miss Lizzie, your father will likely be here in about an hour to collect our rent. It's best you should – "

"Oh – yes, of course," said Lizzie, rising reluctantly. "Thank you, Mr. Clarke."

"Yes sir, thank you as always for your kindness," added Mr. Anthony, keeping his eyes on Lizzie as she hurried out of the shop.

Mr. Todd's eyes narrowed appraisingly as he clapped a hand onto the butcher's shoulder and started walking him to the door. "Why don't you stop in later this evening for a shave, Mr. Anthony? Pardon my sayin' it, but you look like you need one."

Anthony absently rubbed his chin, then smiled thinly. "I think I will do that, Mr. Clarke."

Once the door was closed, Todd strode rapidly across the bakery and jerked his head toward the door that connected to his shop. Toby picked up this signal and followed him.

Todd had already crossed the room to his bureau and was gathering his kit into a leather bag.

"Toby," he began, without turning around, "I need to go out for a while. I have an appointment to shave Mayor Coughlin at his house on the Hill."

Toby was elated, but did his best not to show it. He'd secretly been waiting for this – the time when Mr. Todd would need to leave and he, Toby, could assume the role of man of the house. For some reason, Toby felt he wanted to prove himself to Mr. Todd, had wanted to do so ever since the barber had charged him with such a task. "Blimey Mr. T, that's great for you, ain't it?" he said. "I mean, the mayor and all!"

"Yes, it is," said Todd; but he didn't look all that happy. He had that distracted air Toby was so familiar with…

"Are ya goin' to Mr. Borden's today too, then?" the boy asked, since he knew that Mr. Todd usually tried to arrange his outside clients on the same days.

Todd cast a glance at Toby over his shoulder, his brows contracted. The landlord had begun, after coming to collect the rent for the first time three months ago, to demand complimentary shaves on a weekly basis; and Mr. Todd had insisted that these take place at Mr. Borden's residence on Second Street ("To save you the walk, sir," Toby had heard him say). Toby knew the barber hated going there – he never said why, but it was obvious from the way he always returned from these visits, angry and sulking. Toby suspected he might confide in Mrs. Lovett, but she never discussed it.

"No," Todd growled. "That's on Wednesday. But speaking of Mr. Borden…" He suddenly turned, laid a hand on one of Toby's shoulders, and said "Today is rent day."

So that explained Todd's preoccupied manner. Toby hadn't forgotten their discussion about this very issue. "Yes, sir."

"I'll be gone for some time. The money is in that top drawer. You keep an eye out for Mr. Borden and when he comes, you run out and give him that money. Don't let him in if you can help it. But if you can't prevent him – "

"I'll take good care of her, sir, no worries there."

Todd squeezed Toby's shoulder, said "Good man," and left through the bakery.

Toby stood in the doorway and saw Mrs. Lovett now back at the counter, arranging the flowers in a large vase. Mr. Todd paused to tell her where he was going and kiss her goodbye – cast a meaningful (and slightly menacing) look at Toby on his way out the door – and then he was gone.

* * *

Toby carefully closed the door and crept back down the stairs into Mr. Todd's shop. He didn't want his mum to put him back to work before securing the rent money – he wanted it on his person, so he wouldn't have to leave Mrs. Lovett to go and look for it after Mr. Borden arrived.

He crossed quickly to the bureau and made to open the top drawer – then realized, for the first time, that it wasn't one drawer, but two, side by side. Mr. Todd had only said "that top drawer"; Toby wasn't sure, now, which one he'd meant. The only thing for it was to examine both drawers.

He first opened the one on his left. No money or envelope was immediately visible, so he shifted a few things around, just to make sure – two lather brushes, a spare set of clippers, a streetcar ticket Mr. Todd had for some reason never used, a small half-empty bottle of cologne…

And a little black box.

This piqued Toby's interest, as it looked an awful lot like a jewelry box, but he'd never seen Mr. Todd wear any jewelry except that enormous silver thing on his little finger. So he took it up and opened it.

Inside was a small golden band.

Too small for Mr. Todd's hands.

And Toby very much doubted that Mr. Todd would wear a ring with a diamond in a high setting, anyway –

"_Bleedin' Christ!"_ Toby hissed aloud, as the significance of this find burst upon him.

"Toby dear?..." he heard Mrs. Lovett call from the bakery.

"Ahh _bugger!_"

He threw the box back into the drawer and slammed it shut – then realized he'd neglected to close the blasted thing and jerked the drawer open again; but as he seized the box it jumped from his hand, and the ring clattered to the floor and skittered under the bureau.

"Toby, where've you gone off to?..." Boot heels clicking on the other side of the door.

Toby threw himself on the floor, plunged a hand under the bureau, and cast around wildly, but he still hadn't found the ring when the shop door flew open to reveal a very stern Mrs. Lovett.

"What're you doin' in here? You know Mr. Todd don't like anyone bein'…" Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why're you on the floor?"

"Oh. Uhh…I was just findin' the rent money. For Mr. Todd. So's I can give it to Mr. Borden when he gets here."

She raised an eyebrow. "And you're findin' the rent money…on the floor."

"Uhh…"

"Oh honestly, son. Just find it and get yourself in here and help me. Right?"

"Yes ma'am."

She left the door wide open, but mercifully departed to the kitchen, giving Toby a chance to sweep his hand under the bureau again. This time his fingers finally brushed metal, and he scraped the object towards him across the floor until the ring appeared, covered with dust.

Toby employed every curse word he knew as he grabbed a nearby towel and furiously scrubbed the ring until the gold and gem were again visible and somewhat shining. He examined it closely – the band seemed to be free of scratches…With trembling hands he replaced it in the box, more carefully than he'd ever done anything in his life, and gingerly set the box back in its place.

He opened the next drawer as though he expected a snake to dart out; but the sought-for envelope was right on top, with Mr. Todd's neat handwriting announcing MR. A.J. BORDEN, FEB. '92.

Toby took the envelope, being sure that it, at least, was safe, tucked it inside his jacket, and headed into the kitchen. But when he saw Mrs. Lovett, and she started telling him what work needed to be done, it really hit him about the ring, and he went about his tasks distracted and brooding.

He wasn't sure how he felt about this discovery. He wanted his mum to be happy, and _she_ certainly thought she'd be happy with Mr. Todd…but despite the many recent improvements, Toby still couldn't bring himself to completely trust the man. He wasn't convinced that the dark animus, the universal grudge against the human race that had made the barber so ferociously lust for blood not so long ago, was entirely gone. Toby wasn't sure something like that could ever really go away – he thought it must be part of who a person was. He believed he could see it in Todd's eyes sometimes, as he gazed out the window onto South Main or glanced around at the bakery customers, when he thought no one noticed. And his mum deserved better, even if she _had_ been the murderer's willing accomplice. How could she ever be sure of being safe with such a person?…

Besides – Sweeney Todd certainly didn't fit Toby's image of an ideal father.

* * *

Nine-thirty that morning found Nellie Lovett leaning on her counter, occupied in gazing lovingly at her winter flowers.

"_Life in the dead, frozen ground...Like what you are to me."_

Those words hadn't stopped echoing in her mind since they'd been spoken. It was like that night about a month ago, when he'd said "Nell, you've no idea what you mean to me," out of the blue while they were sharing a quiet glass of wine; that statement had nearly sent her over the moon. But this…

She wondered how, exactly, he meant that she brought life to him, and was debating with herself whether to keep an eye out for an opportune time to ask him, when her son burst through the kitchen door behind her, raced through the shop as if he were on fire, and tore out the door to the street.

She blinked after him. "What the devil has gotten into him today?" she sighed aloud, shaking her head and getting ready to haul him back inside to continue keeping an eye on the baking –

But then she saw A.J. Borden come into view through the window.

She straightened, her eyes fastened on the landlord, her mind suddenly filled with the things Sweeney had told her – and what she sensed he was keeping back – about that house, about Borden. Toby was pulling an envelope from his jacket and offering it to Borden, who took it, opened it (_right there on the street!_), appeared to be counting the money (_greedy blighter_), and secreted it in the inner pocket of his heavy Prince Albert coat.

But then he didn't leave.

Nellie slowly came out from around the counter, never taking her eyes off the scene framed in the window. Toby was shaking his head, and Borden was slowly shuffling closer to him, making the boy back up.

"Turn around and start walkin' right now, you bastard," Nellie muttered; but despite what appeared to be Toby's best efforts, Borden was bearing down on him and heading for the door.

The lad was on Borden's heels as the bell sounded.

"Good morning, Mrs. Clarke."

Nellie plastered a smile on. "Good mornin', Mr. Borden."

Toby positioned himself just at the edge of the counter, staring hard at the old man.

"I don't believe I've met your son before," Borden said. "What did you say his name was, Mrs. Clarke?"

"Billy."

"Billy," Borden repeated. And then his eyes shifted to Toby, back to Nellie – back to Toby – slowly back to Nellie, as if he would bore through her skull with that cold stare. "Doesn't seem to resemble you. Or your husband. Does he."

Nellie wanted to knock the man's teeth out but simply kept smiling and said, "Did you give Mr. Borden the rent money, Billy dear?" all the while keeping her eyes on Borden.

"Yes ma'am."

"Well then, Mr. Borden, I have a lot of work to do, as you know; so if you'll excuse me –"

"Not quite yet."

That's when Nellie's false smile vanished. _"Not quite yet"_? As if he owned her.

"As your lessor, I have the right to examine the premises from time to time. To see if any maintenance is needed. You understand. This is clearly stated in the lease."

Nellie nodded, ridiculously hoping he couldn't hear the nervous thudding of her heart. "Right, well, I assure you everything is – "

"I'll just have a look around the place." And he headed towards the kitchen.

The liquor-laden pantry was in that direction.

"Well," she said, fighting to keep her voice steady, "why don't we start in my husband's shop, Mr. Borden? The kitchen's a bit of a mess right now what with all the bakin' goin' on. Billy, why don't you tidy up in there for Mr. Borden while I take him into your father's shop?"

She hoped the lad would pick up on the meaning she was trying to convey with her eyes; but he said "I think I should – Dad said to – "

"Billy, _dear_, do as I ask now."

Toby slowly nodded and headed through the kitchen door, his eyes lingering on Borden to the very last second.

"Well now Mr. Borden, come this way," said Nellie cheerfully, and led the way to Todd's shop.

_Lay one hand on me and you'll be scooping your eyeballs back in._

To her relief, Borden didn't bother to shut the door behind him. She stood at the foot of the steps as he ambled around the room, fully expecting him to open the bureau and cabinets; but he merely squinted about, nodding strangely, as if assessing a property he'd never seen before.

While Nellie watched him, Toby came pounding breathlessly down the steps. "Sorry Mum," he said. "Got back quick as I could." And he stayed by her side with his arms crossed, like a guard.

"Where is your husband this morning, Mrs. Clarke?" asked Borden, in a conversational tone.

"He's out shavin' the mayor, he is," Toby jumped in. "He's the best barber this side of Boston." Nellie couldn't suppress a smile…was that pride she heard in the boy's voice?...

"Mmm," Borden noised, and a moment later headed back to the bakery and towards the kitchen, Nellie and Toby following. The landlord cast a glance about and headed straight back to the pantry.

"Son," Nellie whispered, hanging back so Borden wouldn't hear. "Did you – "

"It's all just outside the back door," Toby answered, smirking.

Nellie winked at him. "That's my boy."

When Borden emerged, he returned to the dining area, again without a word, and stood gazing about with his back to the counter. He walked to a table, picked up a plate, examined it, did the same with the silverware.

And then he slowly turned and cast his appraising eye on Nellie, staring at her much as he had that day at his house on Second Street. He appeared to be focusing on the skirt of her dress.

Apparently Toby noticed this, because he took a step forward with a murderous sneer on his face; but Nellie grabbed his arm and held him back.

"It seems you're doing very well here, Mrs. Clarke," Borden said quietly.

"Well enough," said Nellie; and she knew there was no hiding the quiver in her voice this time.

Borden nodded. "Good. I'm always glad to see my tenants…thriving."

Then he turned and slowly made his way out the door.

* * *

Two weeks after Borden's visit, Bridget Sullivan entered the bakery wearing a sheepish expression; and when Nellie greeted her with a cheery "Good mornin' dear!" she didn't return the salutation.

"What is it?" Nellie asked. "Workin' in that house gettin' to you? Don't blame you at all, dearie. Cup o' tea'll put you right – "

"No – I don't – I can't – "

And the maid produced a folded envelope from her small handbag.

When Nellie took it, she found a scrap of paper inside informing "Mr. Clarke" that, since he appeared to be so prosperous, having the mayor for a client, utilizing such nice place settings, outfitting his barber's shop so handsomely, and dressing his wife so well, he could afford to pay another three dollars a month in rent.

Nellie cursed under her breath. "That bugger!" Looking at Bridget, she added, "No offense, Bridey, but your employer ain't exactly a prince of a man."

Bridget appeared to be blinking back tears. "You have no idea, Mrs. Clarke, ma'am," she said. "No idea at all."

Nellie's eyes narrowed. Might she have a chance, here, to learn what Sweeney had been keeping from her about that house?..."You might be surprised," she said quietly.

"I think I will take that cup o' tea now, ma'am," said Bridget.

* * *

**A/N:** Not entirely satisfied with this chapter and not clear as to why, so your thoughts are most welcome.

Stay tuned - the you-know-what's going to really start hitting the fan in ch. 7...


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimers:** See chapter 1.

**A/N: **Special thanks as always to those who've reviewed and added to alerts/faves etc., you make my day :-)

Note: I'm thinking of doing an extensive revision of chapter 1, providing a bit more back story to Todd & Lovett's relationship, because I've always felt it seems kind of rushed, like things develop way too fast between them and therefore don't make a lot of sense...Thoughts?...

There's a reference to half a million dollars in here. Today that would be about 12 million.

This chapter pretty much speaks for itself. Please review and let me know what you think...

* * *

**7**

**Two Close Shaves.**

Sweeney Todd walked down Second Street as slowly as he possibly could, attempting in vain to delay his entrance into Number 92.

He'd started to wonder if it wouldn't have been worthwhile to have Borden come to the shop after all. He wouldn't be near Nellie or Toby; he could use the barber shop entrance directly from the street. But Todd had decided against it. He didn't want that man in his shop.

He admitted that he probably shaved men like A.J. Borden every day. Several times a day. But he didn't _know_ it. And he was happy not knowing.

Since that very first visit to the Borden residence, when he'd signed the lease, when he'd felt like tearing Borden's throat out for the way he'd looked at Nellie, all of Todd's worst suspicions of the man had been more than verified.

Sweeney Todd was exceedingly far from being a squeamish man, but 92 Second Street made his blood freeze.

Realizing that his childish delay tactic would only make him late and thus incur Borden's displeasure – something Todd definitely didn't need after the blasted churl had raised the rent – Sweeney quickened his pace. The house wasn't far now, and as he passed the cathedral on the corner, the unimposing structure came into view. The barber let out a long sigh through his nose. _Just do your job, mate, just get it done and you can go home to Nellie and a nice pint of ale._

He sighed again, more deeply this time, when he thought of Nellie. _Had that bleedin' ring three months already and still haven't got up enough nerve,_ he chided himself. _You can cut men's throats with joy in your heart, you can see them served up on plates, you can watch smiling as others consume them, but you can't do this._

Couldn't tell her how he really felt about her, either.

_What do I know,_ he thought dejectedly. _I tried to kill the woman, for God's sake…_

He was almost at the front steps when his thoughts were interrupted by the Bordens' front door flying open and an elderly gentleman hurrying out. Todd recognized this man as Dr. Seabury Bowen, who made frequent trips to the shop get his beard trimmed and conditioned. Sweeney suddenly recalled that Bowen had mentioned living across from the Bordens and serving as their family physician –

"Andrew, I beg you, see reason!" the doctor was pleading, clearly attempting to keep the volume of his voice under control.

"Get out," came a man's voice from inside, and Sweeney recognized it as Borden's.

"You and your wife are both ill! For God's sake – "

"GET OUT!"

Bowen was now backing up into the street, apparently giving up on propriety and really starting to yell. "In good conscience as a physician I cannot – "

"GOD DAMNED WOMEN WITH THEIR CONSTANT AILMENTS!" Borden roared, now appearing at the door, red-faced and quaking with rage. "MY MONEY WON'T PAY FOR IT!!"

Bowen then spun on his heel, a bit red himself, and stomped across the street. Sweeney heard a woman's voice – Mrs. Borden's – within the house, almost whimpering, as Borden went back through the door, shouting _"My money won't pay for it!"_

_SLAM!_

Sweeney stood absolutely still on the sidewalk.

He didn't think anyone had seen him.

Should he turn around and go back? _Yes, that's what I'll do, this clearly isn't a good time –_

He'd actually begun backing up and was just about to turn, when Bridget Sullivan came around the corner of the house and spotted him.

Sweeney sighed in resignation.

Bridget smiled her nervous smile and said "Well top of the mornin' to ya, Mr. Clarke."

He nodded. "Miss Sullivan."

"You'll be after shavin' Mr. Borden, then?"

He swallowed, then nodded. And he and Bridget exchanged a look of understanding, as if she were telling him she understood what he was about to go through; as if her were telling her he couldn't imagine _living_ in it.

Bridget broke the silence, with the air of one making excuses for the inexcusable, glancing in the direction of Dr. Bowen's departure with a little jittery laugh. "Warmed-over stew again, that's all it is…"

Indeed, Nellie had informed Sweeney of some of the maid's whiskey-infused confidences, including those regarding Borden's waste-not-want-not mentality ("I thought _I_ was bad," Nellie had said; "it's one thing when you ain't got the money but blimey…"). Todd couldn't understand this, since Nellie had related that Bridget vaguely suspected Borden's worth to be somewhere up near half a million.

Todd's eyes involuntarily shifted to the windows of the house as a humorless smile curled his lips. "Does the man realize he's got a baker for a tenant?"

A long-suffering look came into Bridget's eyes as she answered. "Things've been goin' on this way the past twenty years from what I understand. No reason they should change, I suppose."

"So tell me then, Miss Sullivan," Sweeney said, turning his glance back to her. "Is life in this house entirely at the mercy of such a man? Does Andrew Borden always get what he wants?"

Bridget went white.

"I'm sorry, sir," she muttered as she rushed past him.

Well, he'd been spotted now – if he left, Bridget might innocently mention to her employers that she'd seen him. He drew a deep breath, walked up the four front steps, and let the knocker fall twice.

A moment later he heard the familiar sound of the bolts sliding back, and the door opened to reveal Miss Emma Borden, Lizzie's elder sister, wearing her customary anti-smile and a simple dove-gray dress. "Mr. Clarke," she said, her voice, as always, quiet yet startlingly expressive, testifying to depths of turbulence beneath her prim façade.

"Good morning, Miss Borden," Todd replied.

She stood back to allow him to enter. "Father is waiting."

"Thank you."

She then disappeared into the back of the house, leaving Todd to make his way up the front stairs. On the first day the barber had shaved his landlord in this house, Borden had suggested the sitting room on the first floor; but when Todd found the room unsuitable, he asked if there was one with better lighting, and Abby Borden, overhearing the conversation, suggested the guest bedroom at the front of the second floor, as the dressmaker utilized it for its abundant light. This room had proved most satisfactory and became the customary place for the weekly shave. Todd well knew his way by now and traversed the familiar route upstairs.

Borden was ready for him, seated in a chair at the foot of the bed, a sheet already over his chest, holding the Providence _Journal_ in front of him. "Morning, Clarke," he said when Todd entered, never bothering to take his eyes from the paper.

"Mr. Borden."

With clenched jaw, Todd set his barber's kit on a marble-top near the washstand and began his preparations.

* * *

Todd began by trimming the old man's hair (what was left of it), cropping it close, then moved on to the distinctive white fringe on his jaw, painstakingly making sure it was perfectly even all the way around. Then he tucked the shears away and selected a razor, the corners of his mouth lifting in an imperceptible smile as he opened the blade and lifted the strop looped around his belt. It was at this point, the stropping and lathering stage, that Borden typically made some small talk with the barber, and this occasion was no different.

"How is your wife, Clarke?"

Sweeney clenched his teeth momentarily; he hated to hear Borden even mention Nellie. "She's well, thank you sir."

"And your boy?"

"Well too."

Sweeney paused, briefly considering the wisdom of what he wanted to say; then decided he simply didn't care anymore.

"I hope this day finds you and your own family in good health, sir?" he finally said, laying a slight emphasis on _good health_.

Indeed, Borden seemed affected, for there was a bite to his tone as he answered "Yes, Clarke, we're well as can be, thank you."

Todd smiled to himself as he replaced the strop and began on the lather. "Forgive my impertinence, sir; it's just that I saw Dr. Bowen leaving the house and couldn't help but wonder if everything was all right."

He'd half expected this comment to be received by an outburst; but to his surprise Borden only laughed it off as he tilted his head back to await the lather. "Huh," he chuckled, "women, you know how they are…"

"H'm," Sweeney noised, and began to brush the lather on.

"A man needs to run his house with a firm hand, don't you agree, Clarke?"

Todd smiled coldly. "Of course, sir."

"Women _want_ a firm hand, I find, despite their protests to the contrary."

Now Todd was outright grinning, thinking of the only kind of firm hand Nellie never protested…"Oh yes, sir. Indeed they do."

"Pity me, sir," Borden was saying as Todd put the lather away and selected a razor. "The only man in a house full of women."

The barber's smile was gone when he turned back to his client. How happy he would have been in his past life, Todd thought, surrounded by Lucy and their beautiful daughter; and how happy he would be now, with his Nellie, his treasure, and if he had Johanna back –

He hadn't thought about Johanna in a long time, and as he scraped the blade across Borden's stubble he wondered where she was, whether things had worked out with Anthony Hope, whether they were happy…had he missed his daughter's wedding day?...

Soon, though, these thoughts were swallowed up by the meticulous demands of Todd's art as he worked carefully around Borden's distinctive white fringe, losing himself in the intense focus his trade required. For a time he forgot he was shaving Borden himself: it could have been anyone, all that mattered was the task before him, until the soft sound of humming downstairs brought him back to reality. It was a feminine voice, and Sweeney guessed that this soothing sound was coming from one of the females with whom Borden felt he was so unfortunate to reside.

His hand was just at Borden's neck to determine the closeness of the shave, and he could feel the old man's pulse. As the humming grew louder, approaching the front stairs, the beat quickened; and Todd, being so close, could hear the breath come faster and harder through Borden's nose.

_Just do your job…do your job and get the hell out…_

And then, just as Todd suspected, Lizzie came into view at the top of the stairs, carrying two bolts of parti-colored fabric straight towards the guest room.

She looked up just when she reached the doorway, and said, in a small voice, "Am I going to disturb you, Mr. Clarke? I just want to leave this for the dressmaker."

Todd was ready to say that she would be disturbing him, to keep her out of the room; but Borden spoke first. "No, Lizzie, come in."

Sweeney didn't look up as she entered the room. He didn't want to see the look Borden gave his daughter; he'd seen it before. He always tried to convince himself he was imagining things; he always tried to push it out of his mind when he couldn't ignore it. He'd told Nellie, several times; and she'd occasionally mentioned certain dark insinuations Bridget Sullivan would make during their brief conversations. Yet every time this subject came up, there was an awkwardness in the air followed by a random change of subject, and Sweeney suspected this meant he and Nellie were only trying to convince themselves of something they both knew wasn't really the case – that they both knew something was dreadfully wrong and didn't want to face it.

_Fancy the two of us being disturbed by anything at all…finding anything so heinous it doesn't even bear acknowledging…_

With every fiber of his being, Sweeney focused on the neck of the man under his blade…_stubble, scrape, wipe blade…stubble, scrape, wipe blade…_keeping his eyes averted. But as Lizzie placed the fabric, she had to squeeze between her father and the sewing machine, and Sweeney's eyes were in just the right position to see Borden's had move under the sheet, reach out subtly, assuming, obviously, that the barber couldn't see, and stroke Lizzie's skirt. She showed no reaction - she simply stood there, enduring it for a few moments in silence, before she left the room as if nothing had happened.

Now it was Todd's breath coming faster, Todd's pulse that was quickening, though for very different reasons. He could see red – literally see red; his vision was filmed over by a crimson haze as he watched Borden's vein pulsing…all it would take was a flick, just one cut, hard and fast –

_Stubble…scrape…_

"Did you know, Mr. Clarke," Borden was saying in a low tone, "that my daughter Lizzie gave me this ring?"

The razor stopped in its path, poised just above the all-important vein…

Borden was holding out his right hand to display a gold band on his little finger, rubbing it absently with his thumb. "She gave it to me when she graduated school."

Todd swallowed the revulsion rising in his gut at the quality the old man's voice was taking on, and his hand tightened to a death-grip on the razor's handle.

And then Toby's voice sounded in Todd's head, telling him about the way Borden had acted the last time he'd come to collect the rent: _"filthy eyes all over her, sir; I woulda' killed him but she held me back"_…This loathsome cur, he wouldn't ever have the chance to leer at her like that again…

_All it would take is a flick of the wrist…_

And then the humming started again, Lizzie's voice coming from somewhere in the depths of the house, and Borden rubbing that ring, and his breath coming hard through his nose, his thumb working faster on that ring…

The razor pressed the ancient white skin as Todd bared his gnashing teeth, angled the edge right against the pulse…he felt the familiar, satisfying give of human flesh as the blade bit down –

"AAH!"

Todd jumped back, as if startled out of a deep sleep. Borden was holding a hand to his neck, and when he drew it away the barber's eyes were drawn to the smear of red on him, on his palm, the flecks of red on the sheet –

"Forgive me, sir – "

"Out, Clarke."

"Sir, I beg your pardon – "

"OUT OF MY HOUSE!!"

Sweeney bowed awkwardly and began throwing his case together while Borden raged about "incompetent…best barber in Fall River!...never again…"

He bunched up the sheet, threw it on the chair, and pounded after Todd down the front stairs. In the front hall, Borden turned and stormed through the sitting room, and a raised female voice – quickly shouted down by Borden – got Todd's attention. As the kitchen door slammed shut and heavy steps sounded on the back stair, Todd glanced into the sitting room to see Abby Borden, staring after the invisible wake of fury her husband had left behind him, then shaking her head and turning to take her duster to the mantel.

Todd hung back, observing the dour, frumpy woman, and realized that this was the mother of two daughters. He thought of Nellie, how she was with Toby – Todd knew she would do anything, go to any lengths, to protect that boy, even to the point of giving her own life. If, that night on Fleet Street when they'd both feared Toby would go to the law about them, Sweeney had in fact turned his razor on the lad, he strongly suspected Nellie would have put herself in front of it, whether she herself realized it or not. Then he thought of Lucy – they hadn't had much time together with little Johanna, but from what Sweeney could recall, Lucy had been an ideal mother. She too would have made any sacrifice –

_But she didn't, did she?_ he realized suddenly. _She abandoned Johanna in the end._

His jaw clenched.

He vaguely acknowledged that he might end up regretting this before his feet were carrying him into the sitting room, where he stood silent for a moment before Mrs. Borden registered his presence.

"Oh! Mr. Clarke," she gasped. "You startled me!"

Sweeney merely took two more paces into the room and regarded her through narrowed eyes.

"A mother's duty," he said, his voice a low growl, "is to protect her children, at any cost to herself."

Mrs. Borden's brow furrowed. "I beg your pardon?..."

Todd advanced further into the room, until he was standing only two feet away from her, and he was immensely satisfied to see fear seize her round features.

With a feral grin, he said, "You know exactly what he's been doing to your daughters. Known it for _years_. Haven't you."

And Abby Borden looked right into Sweeney Todd's eyes and replied, "They're not my daughters, sir."

That shocked Todd into silence. Again, he thought of Nellie and the boy she'd taken in. Toby wasn't her natural child, but you'd never know it. She couldn't have loved him more if she'd given birth to him; and Todd knew that as far as the lad himself was concerned, Nellie was his mother. Period.

"How dare you show such impertinence, in my own house!" Mrs. Borden shouted, and resumed her dusting.

Todd's eyes narrowed, and his head moved slowly back and forth as he said, "You're no better than he is," as the duster continued to swish across the mantel; and he turned and left, knowing he'd probably just brought Borden's wrath down on himself, and not particularly caring.

* * *

Sweeney was pacing back and forth in front of the windows like some great cat, and Nellie sat on the sofa watching him, thinking how bloody amusing it was that the more things changed, the more they stayed the same. She'd watched him do this exact same thing in this exact same way on Fleet Street day after day, staring out that sodding window and pacing those boards till she thought he must fall right through to the pie shop one day. _In the middle of dinner…on a Friday…wouldn't that have been inconvenient…_

He wasn't saying anything, that's what was so maddening. He'd come in, looking much paler even than usual; and since Nellie had known he'd gone to Second Street, she suspected something untoward might have occurred. He'd been telling her things…but now, the way he looked…She'd told Toby to mind the shop, not feeling terribly guilty about this as it wasn't all that busy, and immediately went to Sweeney, suggesting discreetly that they go up to the parlor. He'd nodded and followed her upstairs; and now here they were ten minutes later and all he'd done was pace.

"Love."

No answer.

"Sweeney."

No answer.

"Mr. T."

"Mnh."

She sighed. Yes indeed…the more things changed…

"Talk to me, dear."

The pacing slowed, then stopped as he turned to face her with an odd expression, as if he didn't know whether to shed tears, scream, or pound the nearest piece of furniture to its smallest reducible fragments. Then, in two and a half strides, he crossed to the sofa and threw himself down on it, lying on his back, casting his head into Nellie's lap and staring at the ceiling as if he'd burn a hole in it. God, that was one reason she loved him so madly. The unpredictability.

Nellie's hand went to his hair, and she stroked it gently, brushing it back from his forehead in slow, smooth, even movements. She'd learned that this gesture, when she had the opportunity, actually soothed the savage beast in him; and lo and behold his eyes began to close bit by bit, and she felt his head grow heavy and sink down into her skirts as he began to relax. 

She couldn't help but wonder if he'd gone over to her purposely to receive this treatment; that was something he'd never done before, and the thought made her smile.

"There, love," she said softly. "Tell me."

He paused, taking a few breaths, and said, "Turpin was bad enough, goin' after Johanna like he did. But this…his own flesh and blood…"

His brow furrowed and she felt him starting to tense again. Her hand slowed in its passage over his hair. She didn't really want to hear this…but he needed to say it…

"Who, Borden?"

Sweeney nodded. "He fancies her."

"You're sure this time?"

He nodded again.

"Oh, God…"

"I cut him, Nell."

She froze, her hand poised over his head, and her voice was a whisper: "You what?..."

Sweeney's eyes flew open and he grasped her hand. "I didn't kill him. I only…nicked him. But I wanted to. Kill him. I wanted to…"

She swallowed, resuming her caressing of his hair much more slowly than before. "Are you sure?"

"Sure what?"

"You didn't kill him."

"God's sake, Nellie, I ought to know whether I've killed a man."

"Well, it's just…" _You thought you'd killed the Judge but he hung on for a bit,_ she thought; but she didn't want that night brought up ever again, so she cut herself off.

"I saw him leave the room and heard him go upstairs," Sweeney said in an exasperated tone. "There wasn't all that much blood, he wasn't badly hurt."

Nellie shrugged. "Oh, well then. Probably just raise the rent on us again, is all."

Sweeney sat up, staring towards the windows; and she thought he might get up and start pacing again, but he stayed beside her. "Vermin," he muttered with clenched teeth. "Death is too good for him…"

She knew where all this was coming from; Sweeney himself had said it – Johanna, and what she'd gone through with Turpin. Only this was worse, much worse. "Now we know why he won't let her be married," Nellie said quietly; and Sweeney shot her a look that told her he hadn't thought of that before, but it had to be right…

"Look, dear," she said, "I know how you feel, but…you've got to put this out of your mind."

His eyes shifted to her, but only for an instant. He was sitting stiff and motionless beside her, staring straight ahead at nothing…no, at his justice, at his bloodlust…that's what he was staring at…

She knelt down in front of him in an attempt to get him to look at her. She knew he'd hear her anyway, but…this was too much like before…if she could get him to look at her, she'd know for certain that he wasn't back _there_ somewhere…

"Love," she said, and he was staring right past her, "you need to put this out of your mind. There's nothin' can be done about it short of killin' Borden – "

_Then_ he looked at her, and she locked her eyes onto his, hoping desperately that she could hold him this way for just a moment longer…She took his face in her hands and continued, "And you can't, Sweeney. Not anymore. Those days are gone. We can have a good life now, a normal life; the last few months prove that. Don't throw it away. Don't leave me."

She was getting to him, she could see it; his eyes were lost now, confused, and she knew that look, it was the one he'd always had when he needed her to tell him what he should do…she almost had him…

"I will not lose you, Sweeney Todd – "

Just then the door burst open and Toby appeared, wearing an apologetic expression when he saw that he'd interrupted an important moment. Nellie cursed inwardly – this was the first time she'd ever not been happy to see her boy. She turned to him and said, her voice deadly quiet, "Thought you knew how to knock, son."

Toby seemed to wither under the glare Nellie was very consciously giving him, but he said, "Sorry – sorry – but – Mr. Todd, there's a man downstairs who wants a shave."

Nellie couldn't believe what she was hearing. He'd interrupted them for _that?..._

But Sweeney took a deep breath, looked at Toby, and said "Tell him to come up here."

Nellie took hold of his arm. "I don't think this is a good idea right now, love – "

"I'll be all right."

"Sweeney – "

He turned and looked at her, gently removed her hand from his arm. "I'll be all right. Work might do me some good."

"Why up here?" Nellie asked suspiciously, resolving already to stay in the room whether Sweeney liked it or not. He _had_ done this before, but it was only once or twice, when business was very slow and he'd technically closed, but one customer had showed up and he didn't want to lose the money. But right this moment, Nellie suspected, he might perhaps want to get away from the more visible downstairs area?...and she didn't like the possibilities of his reasons for doing so.

"I'm tired, I don't feel like going down to the shop. Besides," he added, nodding to a case on the marble-top, "I didn't replace my equipment when I got home, it's all right there. Send him up here, Toby."

Toby furrowed his brows at him, but shrugged and said "All right, Mr. T" and headed back downstairs.

"I'm staying," said Nellie, when the lad was out of earshot.

Sweeney shot her an exasperated glance and insisted "I'll be _all right,_ Nell"; but she simply moved to a large armchair and seated herself. "Don't worry," she said, raising an eyebrow at him, "I won't stare." And she took up a book while he shook his head and opened up his case.

* * *

It wasn't long before Todd's client appeared at the parlor door, Toby following him and saying "Come right in, sir" and closing the door behind them. The man wore a big bushy beard, well on its way to whitening, and his neck and upper lip were clean-shaven, so Todd wasn't sure why he'd need a shave…and there was something about his pale eyes that the barber didn't quite like…

The stranger was approaching Todd with a hand out. "Jeremiah Clarke? Best barber this side of Boston?"

Todd took his hand without expression. "Some say so, sir."

"Well," the enthusiastic gentleman said, "from what I understand, Mayor Coughlin would certainly agree. I'm John Morse," he concluded.

Morse…Morse…where had Todd heard that name before?...

He told the gentleman to take a seat, while he began stropping a razor. But Morse didn't take a seat. He remained near the door, looking around the room, and his eyes finally rested on Nellie.

"Ah," said Morse, "If I might be so bold, you must be Mrs. Clarke?"

"The same," she replied, politely looking up from her book.

"Ah, I see. And…" turning to Toby, and not saying anything at all.

"Our son," Todd supplied. "Billy."

When Todd turned around, Morse was regarding Toby and Nellie with narrowed eyes and slowly nodding his head.

"Well," said Morse, "in that case, it does appear that I've found the right place…"

And he turned his head, his eyes directly on the barber's own, and said, "Mister Sweeney Todd."


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimers: **See chapter 1.

**A/N:** Does anyone ever actually read these?... ;-)

Thanks again to all who read & review! I can't thank you enough for your feedback.

Okay, **I have extensively revised chapter 1**. It makes more sense to me that things would happen this new way. If you'd like to check it out, you'd be _really_ helping me by reviewing and letting me know if I've enriched the story or effed it up beyond all recognition. (Just to let you know - references in other chapters have been altered to fit.)

For this chapter: "dinner" was lunch back then...And barbers were actually barber-surgeons, equipped to handle minor medical stuff. I thought it would be interesting to bring up that part of Sweeney's background...it might get mentioned again (especially if there's a...sequel?...maybe??...)

* * *

**8**

**Concocting a Plot.**

"And…Eleanor Lovett, unless I'm much mistaken?"

Sweeney felt as if his brain was suddenly filled with cotton. Everything stopped; the room before him went dim…he was hearing sounds, voices, as if coming across a great distance…Mrs. Lovett's voice, calling for that boy, Toby, saying something about getting himself downstairs…and the boy's voice, to the effect of _"not on your life…" _And suddenly Sweeney Todd was staring out at Fleet Street, from the window of his shop above Mrs. Lovett's , looking down on the street below; and Pirelli was behind him, mocking him, threatening him…but then Mrs. Lovett was there, her hand was on his arm, and she was calling him by his first name…_"Sweeney,"_ her voice sounded, as if she were outside, talking to him through the glass…

"Mr. Todd. Look at me."

His eyes found hers, full of concern and wide with...fear?...That wasn't like her…

"Love," she was saying, her voice so soothing…"open up now, come on…"

And he realized that her hands were carefully attempting to pry away the razor he'd been stropping.

He did open his hand, looking down as Mrs. Lovett took the blade with a relieved sigh. But when his eyes fell on the knife he saw ivory…not silver…

Todd came crashing back to the present…the room came back into focus – Fleet Street was a lifetime ago, an ocean away…He blinked and let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, and in the corner of his eye, he saw Toby, leaning against the closed door, arms crossed and wearing a fearsome expression, glaring at…Todd followed the boy's eyes…there was another man in the room…he'd come up for a shave…Morse?…Morse, yes – he'd recognized them…he had to be dealt with…

But then he felt Nellie's hand on his face, and her eyes, gentle but unyielding, held him until his inner frenzy subsided. He heard her say, without looking away from him, "Think you'd better tell us what you want, Mr. Morse."

The man smiled above his whitening beard. "Oh, don't worry. I'm not going to give you away. I quite understand the need to disappear on occasion. Nor is my…request…to be considered blackmail. I have nothing to gain from either of those courses of action."

"How did you know?" Todd said weakly, finally regaining his power of speech.

"I have connections in out-of-the-way places. I've heard of the fugitive barber and his accomplice currently being most actively pursued by Scotland Yard for a series of inhuman crimes. Doesn't take much imagination to work out that a barber shop and a bakery on the same premises, run by an English couple, hard on the heels of certain ghastly events in London, is hardly a coincidence. And uh," he chuckled softly, "your little escapade at the Borden house this morning only served to confirm my hunch. Gave old A.J. quite a little scratch there, didn't you, Mr. Todd?"

Todd's blood froze. If this Morse had figured them out, it wouldn't take long before others did the same. "How'd you know about that? Who exactly are you, sir?"

Morse took a breath, as if beginning to reveal the purpose of his visit at long last. "My nieces are the Misses Emma and Lizzie Borden. Their mother, A.J.'s first wife Sarah, was my sister. I'm staying at number 92 while conducting some business in Dartmouth. I was down at the post office while you were at the house, and when I got back you'd gone and A.J. was still raving. Thinks it was a careless slip, don't worry."

"Why haven't our…" Todd's eyes flicked to Nellie, "_misdemeanors_…appeared in the American papers?" he asked.

"Oh, they have. But it's been relegated to minor paragraphs buried in the back pages. The authorities never thought the perpetrators would leave England, you see. Certainly not this far. That's why you were able to complete your sea voyage, Mr. Todd – the passenger ships were never alerted. Probably thought you didn't have the means for such a grandiose escape. Not to mention that your offenses were so gratuitously heinous, there's a very good chance no one would believe them from a reputable paper. So at the moment it's a fine little sordid tidbit of foreign crime, but not really viewed as pertinent over here. Yet."

Morse's smile was a tad too smug for Todd's liking. Surely, by now, someone who'd been on the _Belle Harding_ with them had returned to England, learned of the manhunt, remembered the pale fellow with the odd white shock in his hair – the barber had still had it during the crossing – and notified the Yard. Hopefully, though, that would only bring the search to New York and no further…

Nellie's voice interrupted Todd's frantic analysis of their situation. "Don't you think you're playin' a rather dangerous game, Mr. Morse? Standin' there dictatin' terms to the likes of us? Aren't you afraid you might end up makin' some Irishman's lunch tomorrow? Last I checked I was runnin' low on veal."

She was staring hard at Morse, her eyes narrowed, smiling icily, one hand on her hip and the other draped over a chair-back. Sweeney hadn't seen her like this since Fleet Street, and inside he was swelling with pride. She hadn't changed, not really: she still had the same calculating mind, and she could be positively ruthless when necessary; but in the next breath she could blush like a young girl when Sweeney gave her flowers, she could love deeply and fiercely, and she could dream of beautiful things. _God, she's fantastic._

Morse chuckled again in response to Nellie's remark. "As I said, Mrs. Lovett, I don't want to blackmail you." Then his countenance grew serious as he continued: "Quite to the contrary, I consider it nothing short of a godsend that the two of you showed up on our doorstep."

Todd and Nellie exchanged glances. _What the hell is he playing at?..._

For the first time, Morse began to move, past Sweeney and Nellie, towards the fireplace. He took a breath and spoke slowly, seemingly trying to choose his words carefully. "Sarah was…concerned, those last few months of her illness when she realized there was no hope. She…didn't want to leave her daughters. At the time I wasn't sure quite why; after all they'd have their father, and each other…On her deathbed, Sarah made Emma promise to look after Lizzie; but as Emma was only eleven years old…well, it's a hard burden to lay on a child."

He broke off and passed a hand over his face, but when he spoke again his voice was strong.

"When A.J. remarried three years later, I was happy for the girls. I thought they'd have a mother again. I didn't know, I had no idea…Emma wrote me scathing letters full of hatred for her stepmother; Lizzie's were more subdued but the same sense was there…but they never told me…It was only when I lived at the house on Second Street for about a year and a half that I finally knew why Emma loathed her stepmother so, and why Lizzie blocked off the door in her room that connects with the master bedroom."

An odd crawling sensation started creeping up Sweeney's spine. He felt Nellie stiffen beside him as she cut Morse off, saying "Toby, get downstairs" in a severe tone.

But the boy was shaking his head, continuing to glare at Morse. "With respect, ma'am, I'll stay right here."

"Do as she says," Todd barked, and that seemed to do it. Toby slowly, wordlessly, turned the knob behind him, opened the door, and backed out of it, his eyes never leaving the scene until the door cut it off from him.

"We know what you're about to say, Mr. Morse," Sweeney said when the door had clicked shut. "I've seen the way he looks at her. And…other things."

"Just hoped it wasn't true," said Nellie quietly.

Morse nodded tersely. "I think Sarah knew, at the end," he continued. "I think she suspected that A.J. would start on his daughters after his wife was dead. It was Emma first, and then when she got to be about twenty-five, she fell out of favor and he started on Lizzie. She would've been about sixteen at the time. Lizzie looked so much like her mother – "

Sweeney heard a small noise of revulsion from Nellie, saw her from the corner of his eye as she sank into the chair.

Morse leaned against the mantel, his eyes averted. "My sister would not want her daughters living in this…condition. I've betrayed their trust, all three of them...and for that I must answer to the Almighty."

He stared hard into the cold hearth, silent, for long moments; and when he spoke again, his eyes remained distant. "I'm going to kill the both of them. It's the only way: neither Lizzie nor Emma has the means to live independently; they can't just leave the house. I…will make this right, however late it may be in coming." He paused, and his head turned to Nellie. "Lizzie tells me she's very fond of you and young Master Ragg, Mrs. Lovett."

She nodded. "It's mutual."

"You both have the…skills…to help us. Will you?"

Neither Todd nor Nellie responded at first.

"I won't turn you in if you refuse. You have my word. As I said, this isn't blackmail."

"Help you how, exactly, Mr. Morse?" said Sweeney.

"I want you to kill Andrew and Abby Borden. Both of them, on the same day."

"And what do we get out of this, if I may ask?"

Morse smiled thinly. "My…assistance, when you should require it. And that is a considerable reward, considering your situation."

Todd knew that Morse was referring, in a veiled way, to the time when he and Nellie would need to vacate Fall River – in probably a sudden and precipitous manner. What he offered, therefore, was an astute, and potentially much more useful, compensation than mere cash.

"We'll need to consider this, Mr. Morse," Nellie said; and Sweeney looked sharply down at her, his expression asking _"What on earth is there to consider?"_

Morse nodded once, brusquely, and cleared his throat. Making his way to the door, not looking at them, he said, "If you agree, come to the Davis home in Dartmouth on Tuesday next, after nine. I'm sure Mr. Anthony will be happy to drive you."

And he was gone.

Sweeney crossed to the sofa and sat down heavily, keeping his gaze on the carpet for a long while. When he finally looked up, he saw Nellie still in the chair, staring thoughtfully at him across the room.

They had a lot of talking to do.

* * *

The Davis house was more like a cottage, really. David Anthony conducted the Brougham towards the back, and when he stopped, the three of them alighted without a word and entered the back door.

The butcher appeared to be familiar with the house, as he led Sweeney and Nellie confidently through a cold, dim kitchen and down an even darker hallway that opened directly onto a small central sitting room. There, they were greeted by the sight of no fewer than eight people, sitting in a silence suitably thick and somber for the occasion.

Lizzie was flanked by a woman Nellie presumed to be her sister, Emma, on her right and a gray-bearded man Nellie didn't recognize on her other side. John Morse was seated before a coffee table, engrossed in studying some papers and occasionally taking a pencil to them; and on a settee by the fireplace was Bridget Sullivan, along with none other than Dr. Seabury Bowen. There were three other men in the room whom Nellie had never seen before.

Morse lifted his head when they entered and nodded in recognition, while David Anthony made a beeline straight for Lizzie, the unknown man beside her moving over to make room for him. The butcher instantly wrapped a protective arm around her, and she leaned into him wearily.

Nellie smiled frostily. "Whole bleedin' state of Massachusetts involved in this now, Mr. Morse?"

Morse stood. "I can assure you, we have nothing to fear from these people. Mr. Sweeney Todd, Mrs. Eleanor Lovett – may I present," he announced, beginning the introductions and gesturing at each man in turn: "our host, Mr. Davis; my good friend, Mr. Howe – horse traders by profession; and the Reverend Edwin A. Buck. Of course you're acquainted with everyone else."

_Reverend?..._

"Reverend?" came Sweeney's voice beside her.

The minister stood and walked right up to the both of them, his righteous gaze shining with the reflected light of the gas lamps, shifting back and forth between Nellie and Sweeney as he approached.

Well, wasn't Morse just a bloody great ass. Or rather, insane – to think bringing them here with _clergy_ could possibly be a good idea! Unless…

Unless this was a trap.

Buck's eyes finally settled on Nellie, burning brimstone into her soul. She held her head up and met his glowering countenance, unashamed, determined not to look away, waiting for the inevitable – _this is it, this is the end, it's over –_

Buck grasped her hand – Sweeney moved forward – but the preacher simply closed both of his hands around hers said "Welcome. Welcome to you both," and continued by reaching for the hand of an aghast Sweeney, who mutely allowed him to shake it. _Now I really have seen everything,_ Nellie thought, as she let out a shaky breath and exchanged a relieved look with Sweeney. Her fear was answered – the _minister's_ gladness to see them was surely an indication that they were in safe company, that no one in that room would ever divulge their identities.

_Honor among murderers?_ she supposed.

Morse beckoned them to the table, and as they crossed the room Nellie felt all eyes on them, but not in condemnation. It felt as though she and Sweeney were being silently heralded as the guests of honor – saviors, treated with respect, even admiration. Lizzie nodded to them with a small smile as they passed, and for the first time Nellie thought all this might be worth the risk.

Two chairs had been set aside for them, and when they settled in, Nellie saw what Morse had been poring over when they arrived: sheets of paper covered with what looked like meticulously hand-drawn floor plans and a map of, she assumed, the Borden property. Her discomfort at being watched so closely didn't last long, as Morse, gratefully, wasted no time launching into the matter at hand.

"It has to be done in one day," he said, "and Abby must die first, to ensure the inheritance goes to my nieces and not to Abby's half-sister. She'll be there early in the morning, she usually doesn't go to market before the afternoon. Before you arrived, we established that it'll need to be on an alternate Thursday morning, when Bridget" – nodding to her – "will be outside the house. She'll be sure to be seen by the neighbors, so she'll have an alibi for the morning." He turned to Bridget and asked her directly, "You'll be going downtown to purchase fabric before A.J. comes home for dinner, yes?"

"Yes sir," Bridget replied.

"Right, then you'll be out of the way for both…events. I'll be here at the beginning of August to do some more trading, and I've calculated that the closest Thursday to my arrival will be the fourth."

"Which also just happens to be the day of the annual police outing at Rocky Point," Davis spoke for the first time that night, smirking and chewing on the stem of an unlit pipe. "By the time the full force gets back to Fall River, there won't be any evidence left to find."

Morse nodded, then looked to Lizzie's sister. "Now Emma – you remember our discussion a few days ago – have you contacted the Brownells in Fairhaven yet?"

"Yes, Uncle," she replied. "They're planning to have me with them from mid-July to the end of the summer."

"Excellent. I myself plan to visit my niece and nephew on Weybosset Street that morning." Then he turned to Nellie and Sweeney, and said, "That brings us to you."

Sweeney's brow furrowed. "What about Lizzie? What's her alibi?"

"Oh, she'll be at the house."

"Why?"

Lizzie spoke up then, her voice trembling but clear. "I'll be there to assist and keep a watch on the property, to give you an opportunity to work, Mr. Todd. I'm the best one to leave as a suspect. I'll be away from the rooms when…when it happens, and I'm better known in the community than my sister. All that will dispose a jury favorably towards me."

"Besides," Dr. Bowen chimed in, "no one wants to hang a woman in Massachusetts. The state has a rather…unsavory history in that area."

Morse was quick to interject, holding up a hand as if to slow down the conversation. "If all goes well, no one need even go to trial."

Sweeney was shaking his head. "I don't think I can let you do that, Lizzie," he said.

"Mr. Todd," said Emma, "we'll try to keep it from her for as long as we can; but this really is the best way."

Lizzie nodded vigorously; but David Anthony was staring at the floor with a stricken expression.

"There'll be no evidence against her if she's away from the scenes," Dr. Bowen offered. "I'll make particularly certain of that when I arrive to…examine the..." He drifted off before pronouncing the word _bodies_.

Nellie could tell Sweeney didn't like this arrangement, but he nodded. His desire to destroy Borden, she thought, must be overriding every other consideration, even his hatred of seeing a woman in danger.

"Now, on the night of the third," Morse continued, pulling the map to the center of the table and referencing it as he spoke, "Bridget will loosen the slats in the fence between the Borden yard and the Chagnon pear orchard, _here_. That, Mr. Todd, is how you will enter the property next morning, at five minutes to nine exactly; A.J. will have left to deal with his business affairs five minutes prior, that's his routine. Lizzie will allow you into the side door, _here_. After you…dispatch Abby, you will wait in the cellar until A.J. comes home for dinner at noon. You will then return to the cellar, clean yourself up, and exit the property the way you came, taking the bloodstained clothing and the murder weapon with you. I think disposal in the Taunton River would be appropriate."

At this, Sweeney smiled wryly. "With respect, Mr. Morse, I'm not about to chuck my razors in the river."

Morse chuckled. "Oh heavens, Mr. Todd, I'd never dream of asking such a thing. No no, we have the weapon in hand. Mr. Anthony?..."

At this, Anthony rose, reached into a satchel he'd brought with him, and withdrew a flat bundle, a little more than a foot long, wrapped in a white cloth. He went directly to Sweeney and solemnly handed him the bundle, keeping his eyes on him as the barber slowly unfolded the material. Within the fabric nestled a brand new hatchet, with a hickory handle, its edge sparkling with fresh silver gilt. Nellie could tell by the hard look on the butcher's face that he had purchased it himself, and could imagine the thought and intent that had gone into his choice. But the glint in Sweeney's eyes was all too familiar – it was the exact same light she'd seen there when she'd handed him his silver razors the day he returned to London. He was a bit too still beside her, gazing on the hatchet with a corner of his mouth just slightly upturned, and she knew he was back on Fleet Street in his mind, probably at the moment when he'd sent Turpin to his grave. She discreetly placed a hand on his arm, and he relaxed a bit, but kept the hatchet resting on his lap.

The whole transaction had the hushed aspect of a sacred moment.

When Morse spoke again, his voice was subdued. "You'll need a distraction, of course. Friends of Mr. Davis and Mr. Howe will be in the neighborhood, they're not known in Fall River."

"Won't that only _draw_ attention to the house?" Sweeney asked.

"No, love," said Nellie, keeping her eyes on Morse for confirmation. "It'll provide an awful lot of strangers what folks'll remember seein' around that day. Police won't know where to start lookin' for suspects."

Morse beamed. "Exactly, Mrs. Lovett. When questioned, people will have no shortage of suspicious characters to blame for the crime. And even without means, motive, or opportunity, the mere presence of such men will cast doubt in a jury's mind."

At the word _jury_, Lizzie took a deep breath, and Morse looked abashed. He cleared his throat and continued, "Mr. Todd, once the deed is done all you need concern yourself with is destroying the evidence and clearing off. Leave us to deal with the rest."

Sweeney sighed thoughtfully. "I don't think I should be the one to remove the evidence, Mr. Morse. Might look suspicious, a man carryin' a bundle and throwin' it into the river like that."

Morse cocked his head. "What do you suggest, sir?"

After a pause, and a sideways glance at Nellie, Todd answered "Toby."

Nellie's heart skipped unpleasantly. "No," she said, shaking her head firmly.

"No one will think twice about seein' a boy, Nellie; they'd never connect him – "

"Absolutely not, I will not have him involved in this – "

"Nell – "

"_No_," she insisted, trying valiantly to keep the panic out of her voice. "Now Mr. Todd, I'm goin' to put my foot down – "

Sweeney touched her arm and quietly said "We'll discuss this."

There was nothing to discuss, as far as Nellie was concerned; but she could feel the room thickening with anxiety, so she merely nodded. But she'd make sure he wouldn't win this when they _did _discuss it...

"We'll work somethin' out, Mr. Morse," said Sweeney. "The evidence will end up at the bottom of the river regardless."

Morse nodded. "I'll leave that to you." Then he sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and steepling his fingers below his chin in thought. "All that remains is to make certain that A.J. stays out of the house until noon. We must have time to arrange things after Abby is…taken care of."

"But Father always stays out conducting business till noontime, when he comes home for dinner," Lizzie offered.

"Yes; but on this day we must make certain that he doesn't come home early for any reason. Absolutely nothing must be left to chance."

The room was quiet but for the dull _click_ of Davis' teeth on his pipe. Nellie was beginning to wonder why she'd come here; she had pretty well nothing to contribute. Certainly not in this matter. She didn't know anything about Andrew Borden's comings and goings, his morning routines. All she knew was that the old miser collected the rent every three months on the –

Fourth.

Rent day was the fourth of every month. And it was due again three months from now. In August.

Keeping Borden occupied would give Sweeney the time he needed; it would help ensure that he wouldn't get caught.

"Love…"

She looked up to meet his eyes, and a corner of his mouth lifted. "Idea, pet?"

She nodded. "Next time Borden comes to collect the rent is the fourth of August," she said. "I could – "

"No." Sweeney's voice.

"I could keep him in the shop till noon."

Sweeney was horrified, just as she'd known he would be. "You know he always gets there at nine-thirty in the morning. You're going to keep him there for two and a half hours?"

"I'll think of something."

"I won't have it, Nell."

"I can handle an old man, Swee – "

"_I will not have it,"_ Sweeney growled. And something ferocious in his eyes put Nellie in mind, somehow, of a dragon guarding its hoard – smoldering, vicious, possessive, dreadful. Her heart leapt when she saw it; he was casting that dire gaze on her, because she was his, and he couldn't bear the thought of anything happening to her.

At least, that was what it looked like.

_Just my imagination. Again,_ she told herself. But for a second there – just for an instant – she thought that perhaps he might –

"Mr. Todd."

Davis' voice startled Nellie into remembering that there were other people in the room.

"I understand your concern. Would it help if one of my men patrols the outside of the shop? I give you my word, you'll have nothing to fear."

Sweeney's brows were contracted. Instead of answering, he said, "What grudge do you bear Borden, Mr. Davis?"

Davis smirked and let out a bitter laugh. "Old man cheated me out of my inheritance. When my father died, Borden offered my mother a paltry amount for the farm, and she took it. Talked my brothers into selling out. Money didn't last long. Mother lived in squalor till a year ago, when she died in her bed because she couldn't afford a doctor. And then," he laughed, "the 

vulture sold the place for five times what he'd paid her for it." Davis' head jerked towards his friend. "Howe here has a story similar to mine. Plenty of folks around here do."

Nellie could see the conflict battling its way across Sweeney's face. "Let me do this," she said, laying a hand on his knee. "Let me help you."

The barber just looked straight ahead, setting his jaw. "If any harm comes to her, Mr. Davis – "

"Oh, I assure you, sir – "

" – you won't like answering to me."

* * *

The rest of the evening was spent with Morse painstakingly going over the floor plan of the Borden house, even though Todd had been there several times. It was of utmost importance, Morse said, that the barber use the appropriate staircase should he find Mrs. Borden upstairs: because of the blocked-off door in Lizzie's room, the second floor was effectively cut in half, and if Todd used the wrong approach, the whole plan would turn to disaster. He also showed Sweeney the cellar access, both the interior cellar entrance in the back hall and the exit to the back yard.

The meeting adjourned rather abruptly after that. As Sweeney and Nellie were leaving, the barber tucking the floor plans inside his jacket, Lizzie stood and stopped them, taking their hands, saying only "Thank you for what you're doing," with a brave smile.

Dr. Seabury Bowen followed them out, and held them back as they were getting into David Anthony's Brougham for the drive back to Fall River. "I can't tell you how grateful I am, Mr. Todd, for agreeing to help us."

Sweeney regarded the doctor for a moment. "I'm a bit surprised to see you here, sir. I myself have a bit of medical knowledge."

"Ah yes," Bowen smiled. "As a barber, you would, sir."

"Well sir, I'm not a full doctor of course; but it's my understanding that medical men such as yourself take an oath to _save_ life."

Bowen's face darkened. "We do," he replied. "But you see, sir…I delivered Lizzie's child."

Nellie went cold.

"Child…" Sweeney repeated, sounding as if all the breath had been knocked out of him. David Anthony said nothing; but his anger was palpable in the way he roughly handled the carriage equipment as he readied it to depart.

"Not…not her father…" Nellie said, surprised at the weakness of her own voice, and certain of the answer even before she spoke.

Bowen only stared, the look in his eyes answering her. "Stillborn, thank God. Why d'you think Edwin Buck was here? He knows."

Any misgivings Nellie might still have harbored about the risk of discovery melted away. Suddenly, the only thing she regretted was that August fourth was still three months off.

* * *

**A/N:** **Please review!** It helps a lot.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimers:** See chapter 1.

**A/N:** A nice transitional chapter. Let me know what you think of it...

WARNING: Letting you know ahead of time...Chapter 10 will contain graphic violence. Seriously :)

* * *

**9**

**A Family Meeting. Passage of Time, and the Night Before.**

They had _quite_ a row about Toby's involvement.

They'd sent the boy on several errands in town to get him out of the house while they discussed the matter. After about twenty minutes of only managing to butt heads and circle around to the same arguments, Todd was still leaning against the fireplace mantel, looking stonily at the floor, and Nellie was glaring at him, her closed fists firmly planted on her hips.

"I can't _believe_ you'd even _consider_ bringin' him into this!" she yelled.

Sweeney did not match her volume. "Why not?" he said, in his customary quiet, silken tone.

Her eyes widened in fury. "Because he's a _child_, that's why! He's got no business bein' involved with…_murder_, Sweeney!

He smiled. "Bit late for that, love."

"Ohh," she seethed, advancing on Sweeney, her voice now dropping to a dangerously low level, "don't you dare – _don't _you _dare_ bring that up! Why the bloody hell d'you think I kept him outta the bake house all that time?!"

Now Sweeney's voice was starting to rise. "Damn it, Nellie, I'm not askin' the little wretch to do the killin' himself – "

"You're askin' as good as! Why can't _you_ toss the bloody evidence yourself?"

He pushed off from the mantel and took two steps towards her, clearly growing more agitated by the moment. "Because it'll be too obvious, Nell, we've been over this! Durin' the investigation someone's bound to say they saw a man throw something in the river; but a twelve year-old boy may as well be invisible, no one'll even remember he was down there – "

"Well find another way, then!"

"_There _is _no other way!"_ Todd roared, coming closer to her, his face contorting with anger.

Undeterred, she closed the remaining distance between them until they were standing only two feet apart, and hissed "My son is not your apprentice murderer, Mr. Todd!"

"I'm not the only murderer in this room, my dear," he growled, smiling coldly. "There's no difference between what you and I've done, in the end. The Nellie Lovett I know never shrank from…unpleasantness, when it was necessary. Why all these qualms all of a sudden?"

"I think you know I ain't got qualms about killin' Borden," she said, quieter but no less adamant. "I _want_ you to kill him. I'd gladly kill the soddin' pair of 'em myself. It's…I want better for my son, Sweeney."

"And what about what I want for myself?"

Nellie started; her head snapped towards the well-known voice. Toby was sauntering into the room, hands casually stuffed into his pockets.

"You got a real talent for sneakin' around, don't you lad?" Todd said through his bared teeth. Nellie had yet to find her voice again, focused as she was on getting her heart rate back to normal.

"Just thought I'd put my two shillin's in this conversation, seein' it's all about me." Toby stopped in front of the windows, meeting Todd's eyes but for some reason avoiding his mother's. "I were listenin' at the door," he explained, quietly but not apologetically. "Just like when that Morse bloke was here."

Todd sneered and took a step forward – Nellie's hand went to his chest, holding him back. "How much d'you know?" she breathed.

Toby shrugged. "Two o' you's plannin' to kill Mr. Borden and his wife, for Miss Lizzie's sake. And if I understand you right, you want me to get rid of the evidence for you."

Todd's eyes narrowed. "That's right, son."

A slow, creeping sense of horror dawned in Nellie's heart and started spreading all through her as she watched Toby glare at her and Sweeney.

"You said never again. Those days were gone, you said."

Nellie broke away from the barber and headed for the sofa, beckoning Toby over. "Sit down, love."

He didn't move at first, and for a moment she feared he might refuse, storm out of the house, head for the docks and never come back (_and he'd have every right…_), but to her glad surprise he let out a long breath through his nose and joined her.

"Drink?" Sweeney asked gruffly, moving towards the liquor cabinet. "God yes," Nellie sighed, her heart pounding with anxiety at the prospect of this impending discussion; and she and Toby sat in silence while the barber poured two tumblers of the good rum, handed them off, then poured his own and took it to the armchair.

All three of them took a long draught.

Nellie had no idea how to begin this, and she certainly wasn't counting on Todd to speak first. She looked into her drink and cleared her throat –

"What did you overhear when Mr. Morse was here?"

It was Sweeney.

Nellie looked at him in shock. Never would she have expected him to open up…well, _any_ conversation, really; but especially this one, addressing Toby in such a respectful tone…

"Heard enough," Toby was saying, gazing at his glass. "I understand why it's bein' done, that's not what I'm worried about. It's just…why do you two have to help? Can't Mr. Morse get someone else to do it?"

"He asked for our help, Toby," Sweeney replied. "And I want to do it. Simple as that."

Toby looked up at Nellie. "You want this too, then?"

"I want to help Mr. Todd, but I don't want you involved. And you don't have to be," she answered, looking at Sweeney as she concluded.

"Means we'll have to run away again," said Toby, and took a drink.

"That's what it means," Sweeney confirmed.

Toby heaved a deep sigh. "So Mr. T, you think that if I do this for you there's less of a chance of you gettin' caught."

"Mmm," Todd noised in the midst of taking a swig.

Toby was nodding slowly, his brow creased. "What about you, Mum? What's your job in all this?"

Nellie was once again struck by how mature the lad sounded. "I'll be keepin' Mr. Borden away from his house in the mornin', when he comes to get the rent, to give Mr. Todd enough time to do his work."

At this, Toby sat up, horrified, nearly spilling what was left of his rum, his wide eyes on Todd. "What – Mr. Todd – what about – _What're you thinkin'?!_"

This was a rather extreme reaction in Nellie's mind; but she didn't have to wonder about it for long because the boy just barreled on:

"_You're_ the one who told me to look after her when the old man came 'round!" Toby railed. "_You're_ the one who told me don't leave the shop for anythin'! And now you're leavin' her _alone_ with the blighter?!"

He was standing now, red in the face. Sweeney just glared up at him from the armchair; but Nellie, for her part, was stunned beyond words. Sweeney had done that? Told the boy to watch over her in his absence?...Before she had time to let this fully sink in, she heard Todd saying "She'll be looked after. One of Morse's friends – "

"_Bloody hell!"_ Toby raged, "I can look after her ten times better – "

"No offense lad," said Sweeney quietly, with his characteristic sarcastic smirk, "but a grown man could help her much more than you."

Toby opened his mouth to reply to this, but Sweeney rose, placed a hand on his shoulder, and said, "If you really want to help your mum, doin' as I ask is the best way. I don't get caught – she doesn't get caught."

Toby's mouth closed as he appeared to ponder the logic of this plan. He sat back down, and Todd did the same.

"Toby – " she started; but she was cut off by the boy's firm voice saying "I'll do it."

"_No,"_ she said; "you don't have to do this for my sake – "

"Mum…what else am I gonna do?" He looked up at her, smiling, shaking his head. "You're all I got. The pair o' you," he added, shifting his eyes to the barber. "If this is what I need to do…I'll do it."

Angered by the implication of this comment, Nellie took him by the shoulders and turned him to face her. "What're you talkin' about? What d'you mean, _'need to do'_? You do not 'need' to do anything for us, d'you understand me? You do not have to _earn_ bein' our son."

_Oh, God._

"_Our"._

She'd never meant that to slip out, and silently berated herself for allowing it to do so now, after being so careful guarding that particular fantasy for so long. She felt heat rise to her face, and didn't think she was imagining the sense of Sweeney's eyes on her back – she could feel the tension coming off of him like smoke.

Toby rescued her. "Ain't what I meant, Mum. I just…whatever you two're doin', I want to help. I want to be a part of this."

Weary of fighting, Nellie leaned her elbows on her knees, her chin resting on her folded hands, feeling completely defeated. It wasn't as if she could _prevent_ him; he already knew everything, and knowing Toby he'd find a way to at least try to assist them, even if his interference cost the success of the plan. The best thing to do, therefore, was to bring him in on it – at least then there would be a measure of control over the boy's involvement.

"I never wanted this for you," she whispered into her hands. The lad had such a good heart, and she was destroying it by allowing him to be an accomplice to murder.

And she felt acutely that, of all her and Todd's crimes combined, none compared to that one – the only one she felt remorse over, really. They'd stolen the boy's innocence brutally, and now they were only compounding the offense – and the lad was practically thanking them for it, begging them to let him share in their gruesome work so he could fit in as a contributing member of the household. For the first time – and the last – she regretted ever taking Toby in.

"I'm sorry, Toby," she whispered, smiling bitterly. "Seems all I can give you is a life of runnin' away from choices you never made."

She felt Toby fling an arm around her shoulders and give her a squeeze. "Don't ever say that. You've given me everythin'. I _have_ made my choice, and this is it. Right here, with you, no matter what. We're all in this together now. "

"That's right," Sweeney's voice sounded, quiet and reassuring. She looked up at him, and saw the oddest expression on his face, as if he was trying to work something out in his head. He regarded her like that for a moment, then rose suddenly and said, "You and I have some talking to do, boy," heading towards the locked desk where he'd secreted the floor plans and maps Morse had given him. On his way by, he roughly rubbed Toby's head, and Nellie knew it was an attempt at affection – the beginning of something she never thought she'd see.

She realized in that moment that, once again, her dream was within her grasp, closer in fact than it had ever been, though admittedly not in the way she'd always imagined; and this time nothing – _nothing_ – was going to tear it out of her hands.

She'd made this peace with herself by the time Todd returned with the plans.

* * *

June and July were spent much as usual – going about business each day as though everything was swimming along in a perfectly normal fashion. The only difference was that Todd immediately started closing his shop on Thursdays, so that, by the time _the_ Thursday arrived, his absence wouldn't be questioned – after all, as a tenant of Andrew Borden, he might be viewed as having enough reason to bear the old man a grudge. Every few nights, he'd sit down with Toby and go over the plan meticulously – a couple of times he even took the boy out in the middle of the night to walk over the routes he'd need to take. Lizzie started frequenting the bakery more often, seeing in Lovett a sympathetic ear, now that the baker knew of her situation. In fact, Nellie couldn't have been more shocked when, only a week after the clandestine meeting in Dartmouth, Miss Borden appeared one late afternoon, between the lunch and dinner hours, and addressed her by her real name.

"Good afternoon…Mrs. Lovett," Lizzie said, after looking about to make sure the shop was empty.

Nellie well recognized Lizzie's voice by this time, so she wasn't startled on hearing her name. Without looking up from her chore of wiping down a table, she called out, "Lizzie dear, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Nellie?"

Lizzie's easy laugh rippled through the room in response. She took a seat at one of the tables and was silent until Nellie finished her task, turned to her, and said "Now then, you and me can have us a nice little chat. What can I get for you?"

Lizzie suddenly became preoccupied with the table's surface, and her voice was timid as she replied, "Actually…Maggie said you…make a nice cup of tea."

"Oh, right then," said Nellie, and bustled off to the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with a steaming cup, which she cheerfully set before Lizzie. "There you go."

A wisp of a smile played about Lizzie's mouth. "No," she said, politely pushing the cup away from her. "I mean…a _cup of tea_."

Nellie felt her heart drop as if it would go through the floor. Her reaction must have been written on her face, because Lizzie was quick to add "Oh, don't worry, she hasn't told anyone but me. She figured I could use it."

Nellie remained unconvinced. "But…the Temperance Union…"

Lizzie let out a little bitter laugh. "The meetings get me out of the house."

Her first exposure had been a nice mild ale; but by the end of July she and Nellie were knocking back the hard stuff together, laughing and chatting like old friends.

It only made Nellie more determined to see the day of reckoning arrive.

* * *

Things continued in this vein until, at last, the third of August came.

There had been no more meetings, no letter exchanges – it was as if the conspirators shared some secret mental connection that would lead them to enact their separate parts in harmony without actual communication. Nellie noticed a change in Todd in the weeks leading up to the fateful day – he'd begun to withdraw from her, growing sulkier by the day, to the degree that she feared he might be regressing to the condition he'd been in when he'd first returned from prison. She was close to telling him to call it off – nothing was worth the collapse of everything they'd managed to build between them – but she knew it would do no good. So she merely attempted to maintain a delicate balance between giving him the space she knew he needed, and keeping him anchored to the present by trying to reach him.

Then, on the night of August third, she was distracting herself from thoughts of the morrow by reading in the parlor, when he came up from his shop, passed her without a word, and disappeared into their room. Ten minutes later he came to the doorway in his shirtsleeves and spoke her name.

When she looked up at him, he said softly "Come here to me, my love," and embraced her when she did so.

An hour later they were sitting up amidst the madly snarled sheets, quietly enjoying each other's presence in the calm after their lovemaking, still wrapped around each other in the darkness, foreheads touching, Nellie's arms draped over Sweeney's shoulders and his hand absently stroking her thigh.

"I haven't meant to neglect you," Sweeney said.

"I know, darling. You've been distracted. I understand." But inside she was sighing with gratitude that he'd come out intact on the other side of his episode. Apparently it was something he needed to go through, and Nellie decided to leave it at that.

"You've…kept me from drowning, these past few weeks," he said. "I want you to know that."

There was something else Nellie needed to know, but she feared to ask, because it would mean delving back into the night she so badly wanted to forget. But the question had been plaguing her – ever since that night, actually; but more so as time went on. And she hated to admit the possibility, but if something did go wrong tomorrow…she needed to know…

"Can I ask you somethin', Sweeney?"

"'Course, pet," he whispered, softly kissing her cheekbone.

She swallowed. Took a breath. Plunged.

"Why didn't you kill me?"

He tensed, made no reply.

"That night, when you had your chance…why did you spare my life?" she pressed. "Why did you stay with me? Why are you here in my arms now?"

He still wasn't moving as he said, a bit too loud but not angry: "Does it matter?"

"Yes. It matters to me."

A moment passed in which he seemed to be considering his answer. Then he lifted his hand, his fingertips brushing the tendrils of hair at her temple, tracing the shape of her face, traveling down her cheek, just whispering over her skin; and his voice was little more than a breath: "Don't you know?..."

"Tell me." She wondered vaguely how she was able to speak at all when she'd stopped breathing.

"I couldn't…for the same reason I wanted to." His fingertips continuing, ever light, down her throat, skimming slowly across her shoulder, collarbone…

"You caused me such pain…because you'd come to mean so much to me." Her eyes closed gently as his other hand slid down to the hollow of her back, fingers curled to run along her spine, making her shiver, and pressed her closer to him.

"I'd never realized how much, until then….you were my refuge…my light…" Whispering the words into her hair now, his lips softly ghosting over her face.

"…and only now have I…" Letting the words trail off, kissing her eyelids, lighter than air.

She was positively faint.

"My treasure," he sighed, continuing these ethereal caresses... "…my treasure…"

With an effort, Nellie drew breath enough to gasp softly, "I love you, Sweeney Todd…"

Never before had he reacted in the slightest to that avowal…now, he wrapped his arms around her and cradled her as close as possible, burying his face in her neck, rocking her gently as if trying to comfort her.

She tried to contain her joy at this response, for fear that it might startle him, like a timid wild thing, and she would lose him. "Come back to me," she breathed, clinging to him, on the verge of tears – as she had been, with him, because of him, so many times before; but now for a very different reason. "Tomorrow…please be careful…oh God, Sweeney, come back to me when it's done…"

He separated from her, just enough to take her face in his hands, more gently than he ever had before, and kissed her – gentle, quiet, lingering, melting her, melting them into each other. When it ended, he stroked her lips with his thumbs, and murmured, "That's a promise, Eleanor."

* * *

Mr. Todd had told Toby to come and wake him if he wasn't up by six. The absence of the typical sounds of morning activity out in the parlor gave the lad a clue that that was indeed the case, and he'd soon have to rise and do as the barber had asked. Not that Toby had slept at all anyway – it wasn't every day he'd wake up to the responsibility of destroying the evidence of a double murder; and he'd lain awake all night going over the plan again and again, visualizing it. _Get to the pear orchard at noon. Wait for Mr. Todd. Take the stuff from him and get to the river. Don't stop 'till I get back home._ Picturing himself in his mind traversing the routes he was to take – different streets going and returning, as Mr. Todd had shown him on the map.

As the lad watched the gray advance of dawn through his closed shutters, he considered the great weight that was on his shoulders. Really, an awful lot was riding on him that they not get caught. If he failed, they would all be arrested. And hanged. Well, maybe he'd get away without the noose…but without Mrs. Lovett and Mr. Todd…then what?...

But another part of him was excited. Mr. Todd was placing a great deal of trust in him –had told him so, in fact, numerous times – and for some reason Toby himself couldn't quite fathom, he felt proud of that. He wanted to prove himself to Mr. T, just like when he'd had to watch over his mum when Mr. Borden came by that day.

Toby heaved a heavy sigh, asking himself why he was so eager to please the barber for whom he really didn't feel much liking; but his thoughts were broken by the sound of St. Mary's bells striking six – the Angelus bell, he'd learned from his Irish Catholic chums. He scrambled off his bed, pulled on some clothes, and padded out to the door of his guardians' room.

He turned the knob slowly and carefully, not wishing to startle them, and pushed the door ajar.

The sight that met his eyes made him stop and stare.

His mum and Mr. Todd were sound asleep, bundled up under a single sheet: Mrs. Lovett nestled close to Mr. Todd, her head resting on his shoulder, her arm across his chest; one of Mr. Todd's arms around her – protectively, as it struck Toby – his other hand buried in her hair, his head leaning towards hers. After a moment they both shifted – Toby's heart thumped in fear as he thought they were waking up – but it was only so they could hold each other closer in their sleep, Mr. Todd gathering Mrs. Lovett even nearer than she already was, she snuggling into him. 

And Toby was sure he heard a sigh from Mr. Todd – a deep, contented sigh. As if the barber was actually _happy_ in that moment.

Toby had a hard time tearing his eyes away, but he knew he'd catch blazes if they found him ogling; so he silently backed away and shut the door.

He stood at that closed door for some minutes, trying to work out what he'd just seen. So simple, and yet so complicated: Toby knew he'd witnessed real love just then – he'd _felt _it, like an aura permeating the room. That was the simple part. The complication came in when Toby pondered that this sense was coming not only from his mum but also, shockingly, from _Mr. Todd_. Toby had known for some time that the barber fancied Mrs. Lovett something powerful, even loved her in his own way; but this…to see such blatant tenderness and affection and warmth from the cold, taciturn Mr. Todd…to see those things from a man whose heart had been blasted near-lifeless by loss and butchery, and who was about to go out and cold-bloodedly murder two people again in less than four hours…

Toby felt as though he'd just observed a twin brother of Mr. Todd who only showed up to visit Mrs. Lovett when no one else was around and they could be alone, and he could show her that he did, indeed, possess a heart of some kind, and that it only kept beating for her.

And, Toby figured, he was probably very close to right in thinking that.

Then his thoughts went to that ring, hidden away in the drawer down in Mr. Todd's shop, and suddenly Toby wanted more than anything for the barber to give his mum that ring and to ask the question that inevitably went along with it. Because Toby knew now, beyond a doubt, that Mr. Todd would never hurt his mum. Not intentionally. Maybe she really could be happy with him…and if Mr. Todd was able to love Mrs. Lovett so much, maybe he wouldn't make _too_ bad a father after all…

Toby was grinning ear to ear as he knocked on the door. He had to repeat this action twice, louder each time, before he heard Mr. Todd's gruff "What?"

"Wakin' you up, Mr. T, just like you asked."

"Mnnh," the barber groaned. Toby then heard his mum's sleepy voice, yawning and saying "Mornin' Mr. T."

"Morning, my dear," Todd replied, and Toby heard the soft _smack_ that indicated a good-morning kiss.

Just like any other morning, Toby thought, in any other family. Only this wasn't any other. It was – rather uniquely – his own.

* * *

**A/N:** Ch. 10 will take a while to put up. It has to be done right :)

* * *


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimers:** See chapter 1.

**A/N:** Hope you all remembered to brush and floss after reading Chapter 9 ;) Now that last installment may give the impression that our Sweeney has gone soft. Allow this chapter to assure you that such is very far from the case...

BTW all the murder details are taken from the actual autopsy reports.

The poem in the beginning is from a poem read at Lizzie's funeral: "Hame, Hame, Hame" by Alan Cunningham. She even had the last three words of this stanza engraved on the mantel of the home she purchased after her trial.

* * *

**10**

**Good Morning, Mrs. Borden.**

_The green leaf of loyalty's beginning for to fall,_

_The bonny white rose it is withering and all;_

_But I'll water it with the blood of usurping tyranny,_

_And green it will grow in my ain countrie._

John Morse helped himself to another sugar cookie and dipped it politely into his coffee. He was studiously avoiding the mutton stew, which had been sitting in the icebox since Bridget had prepared it four days prior – the ice block being pretty well melted down, and the summer heat unabated, by this time. A.J. and Abby had both been ill the past couple of days – Abby convinced that the family was being poisoned, the silly woman – and Morse couldn't afford to risk illness today. He needed all his wits about him.

"What are your plans for the day then, John?" said Andrew, shoveling a hearty helping of the stew into his mouth and gobbling it hungrily. "Doing some trading up in Dartmouth?"

"Not today, A.J. I thought I might visit my niece and her husband, go down to the post office." He grabbed up a banana and peeled it casually. "You'll be off to work at your regular time, I suppose?"

Borden noised assent.

"And you, Abby?" Morse continued. "Going to market today?"

She nodded, slurping away at her coffee. "We need meat today, but I won't go till this afternoon, after the housework is done."

Morse smiled inwardly. _Perfectly according to plan._

They made small talk about the hot weather, the condition of the real estate market, and various tidbits of local news throughout the rest of the meal, until they pushed back their plates and Mrs. Borden rang a small bell that rested on the table. This summoned Bridget Sullivan, who came bustling in and began quickly clearing away the dishes. Morse had to admit, he was impressed by the maid's calm demeanor. She'd always struck him as skittish and flighty; but this morning she seemed composed, deliberate.

Morse checked his pocket watch. It was just after eight thirty. Perfect timing.

"Well A.J.," said Morse, rising and pushing back his chair, "I suppose I'll be off. I'd like to get to the post office before the morning rush."

He exited through the kitchen, Borden following him down the back hall and to the side door. "Come back for dinner, John," the old man said.

Morse made no reply, but walked down to Second Street, heading towards Pleasant. For now, his job was done. He'd have to trust his players to take care of the rest.

* * *

Lizzie hadn't made an appearance at breakfast. Neither she nor Emma ever did – the sisters flat-out refused to eat in their stepmother's presence. When Lizzie heard the sound of clattering dishes drifting through the house, she knew that Maggie had started the washing-up from breakfast, and figured it was safe to descend.

From the parlor window, Lizzie watched her father's black-coated form ambling across the street in the direction of South Main. That meant Uncle John was probably gone already…She glanced to a clock on top of the piano. Quarter to nine. Mr. Todd would be here soon.

She went into the sitting room, where her stepmother was dusting the furniture.

"Where is Uncle John?" Lizzie asked innocently.

"Out," Mrs. Borden replied, not looking up at her. Neither woman had exchanged a "good morning".

Lizzie knew exactly where her uncle gone – just wanted to confirm that the plan was proceeding. It appeared to be. The only thing that remained was to ascertain where her stepmother was planning to be next.

"Will you go downtown this morning, Mrs. Borden?"

"Not so early," Abby said, continuing to focus on her cleaning. "I think I'll go up to the guest bedroom and tidy up the bed, since your uncle slept in there last night. But when I go out this afternoon I'll be getting fresh meat, so if you want anything particular you may as well tell me now."

Lizzie knew the damned woman didn't care what she wanted, but was only trying to avoid an argument. And even that wasn't because she cared. She was simply too lazy to expend the energy an argument would require.

Lizzie smiled sweetly. "I don't feel as though I want any meat at all today, Mrs. Borden; it feels too hot to eat anything heavy."

Without another word, Lizzie went through to the kitchen, closer to Todd's approach and better placed to admit him immediately when he arrived. From the continued sounds of dishwashing in the sink room, Maggie had yet to finish that task; and Lizzie sincerely hoped she would hurry so the maid could get outside and start on the windows at least close to the planned time. She lit the stove and placed her flats on a burner to heat up, got out an old _Harper's_ to pass the time, and pulled up a seat at the table, waiting.

* * *

Sweeney Todd stalked through the streets of Fall River with a purpose he hadn't possessed in ages.

"Now remember to keep your wits about you, dear," Nellie had said that morning, just before he'd gone out the door. "This ain't like before – this is a private home, prominent citizens. Broad daylight."

He'd grinned and said, "You and I've done plenty of daylight mischief in our time, my dear," kissing her hand in a cavalier manner.

But his attempt to distract her hadn't worked. "I'm serious, Sweeney," she'd said. "Got to keep your head on straight."

Todd saw some people he knew as he walked up Pleasant, clients of his and customers of Nellie's who nodded "Good morning" to him; and he nodded back, unconcerned. There was nothing suspicious about "Mr. Clarke" going about town on errands when his shop was closed. In fact, the barber smiled to himself. It actually electrified him – the broad daylight Nellie had cautioned him about, exposing his presence to the world, only served to increase his secret thrill. His heart pumped faster as he thought of it: he was about to serve up justice one more time, right under the noses of all the pompous, self-righteous, highfaluting scum who ran this town…all the blue-bloods on the Hill who stamped the less fortunate into the ground in their factories, robbed men of their inheritance.

_Well,_ he thought, unable to conceal a smirk, _you'll soon see that the blood of your kind is just as red as ours._

He was close to the Chagnon orchard when he saw a familiar figure on the opposite side of the street, but he didn't slow down, didn't even glance in the man's direction. It was John Morse, chatting with another gentleman – making sure he was seen about town, establishing his alibi. Good. Todd could only assume that meant he would find conditions at the Borden home also according to plan.

He reached the orchard without incident and ducked into the shade of the trees. His goal, the wooden fence, was straight ahead. Todd hoped, with his first tinge of anxiety, that Bridget had done her job and loosened the boards the night before.

He had to work his timing perfectly – too fast and he might draw attention from the street; too slow and he'd surely be discovered. At an easy pace he threaded his way through the trees, staying in the shade, till at last he'd reached the fence and eyeballed a spot about four feet from the corner. Damn – if the maid had done her job, she'd done bloody well. Todd couldn't tell if the slats had been tampered with or not, until he approached and pressed his hand against the wood.

It gave.

He surreptitiously shifted the slats to the left, until they left just wide enough a space for him to slip through. On the other side, he instantly rearranged the fencing, closing the gap, then turned quickly and found himself in the Borden yard.

Morse's map had been right – from this angle, Todd couldn't be seen from Second Street, since the Borden barn was so close to the back corner of the house. He was completely concealed from view on the right. But the neighbors' house on the left – its windows looked directly onto the yard. Todd would have to hurry to avoid being seen.

As he moved into the yard, he stopped short. Bridget Sullivan was on the north side of the house, washing the windows. That was the same side as the door he was meant to enter. _Bugger_. The timing must be off by a few minutes. The maid was supposed to be on the _west_ side of the house – the street side, washing the parlor windows, to draw attention away from the side door where Lizzie was to admit the barber.

Todd flattened himself against the barn wall, considering his next move. His best option was the cellar, but that door wouldn't be unlocked yet.

He thought he saw movement in one of the neighbors' second-floor windows.

He was just about to duck inside the barn, to at least give himself some cover while things sorted themselves out, when he heard a sound from the house. He turned in its direction and saw the outside cellar door swinging open.

God…if it was Mrs. Borden…

But it was Lizzie.

She was glancing around – searching for him, Todd suspected – and spotted him just as he began crossing the yard in her direction.

"Mr. Todd!" Lizzie exclaimed breathlessly, actually seizing his sleeve and pulling him inside, then shutting the door behind him.

"Lizzie," he greeted her through a clenched smile.

"I'm sorry, our timetable is off somehow. But we'll be all right – Mrs. Borden has just gone upstairs to the guest room to make up the bed. You'll find her there."

"Where's the hatchet?" Todd growled, as they made their way through the laundry and sink area, where he'd be cleaning up later.

"Oh! Right over here," she replied, leading him to a side room, where there was a furnace and an enormous ash pile. She disappeared into a tiny alcove by the chimney, rummaged for a moment, and brought out the cloth bundle that had first been placed in Todd's hands during that fateful meeting in Dartmouth. Morse had taken it back to Second Street with him that night and hidden it, so Todd wouldn't have to walk all through town trying to conceal it.

Lizzie handed the bundle over – it was almost as if she knew Todd would want to unwrap it himself. He did so – the weapon still gleamed like new, and he couldn't suppress a smile as he tucked it, and its covering cloth, into the large inside pocket Nellie had sewn into his coat lining for just this purpose.

"Mr. Todd?"

Lizzie was looking at him with anxious eyes. It was time.

He took a step away from her, then stopped.

"I had a daughter, you know, Miss Borden."

"Oh, I didn't – "

"Her name was Johanna."

Lizzie was silent, letting him take the time he needed.

"I…couldn't look after her while she was growing up, and she…was placed in a situation very similar to your own, at the hands of her guardian."

"Oh…I'm sorry…"

He turned and faced her, his eyes blazing. "It ends today, Lizzie. I promise you."

He spun on his heel and raced up the cellar stairs, letting himself into the back hall – hurried through the kitchen, the sitting room, Morse's map coming back to his mind's eye – feeling the weight of the hatchet bouncing against his ribs, seeming to set the pace for his heart – into the front hall.

Up the stairs.

He saw her through the railing of the banister as he looked across the landing: she was on the far side of the room, positioned between the bed and the bureau parallel to it, apparently fussing with the pillow shams. His eyes never left her as he crossed the landing, entered the room – stayed in the doorway for the time being, in case she tried to run out.

He said nothing, and she apparently didn't register his presence until she looked up from arranging the shams and saw him.

"OH!" she yelped, a hand flying to her heart in alarm. Then, more calmly, steadying her breath: "Oh…Mr. Clarke, it's you."

Then her aspect changed. "What on earth are you doing here? My husband barred you from this house after that day you nearly sliced his throat open. If you want to speak with him you'll have to come back later, he's at work."

And she resumed her activity as a way of dismissing him.

"On the contrary, Mrs. Borden," Todd said, stepping into the room, coming around the foot of the bed. "It's you I've come to see."

* * *

Nine o'clock saw Toby pacing through the bakery – back and forth in front of the large windows, staring out to the street, hands clasped behind his back. Nellie observed him from behind the counter, marveling at how the boy's manner somehow managed to so strongly resemble Sweeney's.

"Toby."

No answer.

"You'd better get yourself downtown now, son."

He stopped and turned to her with a dark, indecisive expression. "I don't like leavin' you alone today," he said.

Nellie smiled. "I know. But you remember what Mr. Todd said – you need to get yourself downtown for a few hours and do some errands, or it might look strange if you leave just before all hell breaks loose."

Toby's brow furrowed. "You think it'll be that bad?"

"Oh, yeah," she said casually. "I doubt anything like this has ever happened in this town. Best to make everythin' look normal as possible. Come on, out you go."

Toby cast a glance toward the door, rocking on his heels.

"I ain't gonna be alone, Toby. Mr. Davis' man will be around keepin' an eye out," Nellie assured him, coming around the counter and laying a hand on his shoulder.

Toby looked out the Morgan Street window as if seeking such a character. And sure enough, a dark-coated figure drifted into view, his back to the windowpanes, and simply stood there with crossed arms, as if he had no other business but to stand in front of the bakery all day.

"See there, what'd I tell you?" said Nellie with a confident wink; but Toby just sighed. "Now," she continued, "d'you have the list I gave you?"

He nodded. She could tell he was extremely upset and trying to hide it like a man. "All right," she said, figuring the best thing was to simply ignore the boy's distress so his own mind wouldn't linger on it. "You just be sure to meet Mr. Todd at noon, no later."

"Yes, ma'am."

Nellie ushered him out the door and glanced to the clock on a shelf behind the counter – five past nine. She sighed deeply and thought of Sweeney. He should be at his work by now…and Borden should be on his way…

To distract herself, she headed back into the kitchen to continue her morning's work – casting a quick glance, in spite of herself, towards the window as she turned. Davis' man was still there, pacing slowly towards the front of the shop. For the first time, Nellie glimpsed the man's profile: dark, bearded, scowling. Looked like a cold-blooded killer. _Thank God._

She lost track of time, as she always did when she went to her work, so she had no idea of the hour when a booming voice sounded in the shop beyond the kitchen door.

* * *

Abby Borden stepped to the foot of the bed as Sweeney came further into the room. She was staring at him with a bewildered expression, not even trying to leave the room, to get away from him. Apparently, not a single suspicious thought had entered her head.

"I told you once, Mrs. Borden," Sweeney said, stalking slowly towards her, almost gliding, like a cat menacing its quarry... "a mother's duty…is to keep her children safe…to watch over them…no matter the cost to herself."

"What are you talking about, Clarke? Get out!"

"I don't think I'm gonna do that, Mrs. Borden." The barber was directly in front of her now, and he reached out to calmly close and latch the folding shutters of the window just on her right. "I'm here on your daughters' behalf, you see."

He turned to face her as he said, "I don't want to disappoint them."

"My daughters?! What on earth – "

Grinning, Todd slowly opened his coat and reached inside.

"You've allowed him to do it, never once did you try and put a stop to it. So I'm here to do what you haven't bothered to do."

He withdrew the hatchet, and the stupid woman just looked at it in confusion, as if wondering what good reason Clarke the barber would have to wield a hatchet in a civilized house, in polite company, in the sunny guest bedroom.

"I think it only fair that you know the name of your executioner before you die," he said, his inner exhilaration threatening to boil over. "My name is Todd, madam. Sweeney Todd."

He thought he saw a flicker of recognition in her eyes as her mouth fell open, just before the hatchet came biting down, fast as a blink.

The world around Todd disappeared in a flash of red. But the blasted woman had dodged aside, quicker than Todd would ever imagine, at just the last moment, and the first blow had merely shaved through the skin at her left temple, only just missing bone. He was thrown – he hadn't been expecting this. How he longed for his razor in that moment – quick and precise and more pliant to his will than this big, clumsy laboring tool…

There was no scream from Abby Borden – only a harsh gasp – eyes impossibly wide with shock – a trembling hand raised to the wound…the skin flapping on a hinge of flesh…Abby staring at her bloodied hand a moment, then raising her eyes to the barber once more, drawing breath for, he supposed, an outcry.

That had to be prevented.

Pulling himself out of his momentary befuddlement, Todd drew the weapon back again but Abby, with the speed of desperation, whirled around, and the barber had a feeling she might try to scramble across the bed and out the door, and he didn't fancy trying to chase her down. With a grunt, he grasped her by the hair, the force of his grip driving her to her knees, trapping her solidly between the bed, the bureau, and the wall; and he brought the hatchet down again, squarely on top of her head with a satisfying _crack_, causing a small, dark red fountain to spurt up and spatter over the windowsill, over Todd's chest: a most gratifying sensation, that warm, rich fluid rushing to meet him, and his dark, dog-snarl chuckle escaped his throat as he shifted his hand for a better grip on the smooth wooden handle.

_Now_ she was making noise, pathetic little scrabbling high-pitched whimpers that escalated to frantic wailing as her free arm bent back wildly, clutching at air, trying to seize the weapon away from Todd; but he'd learned his lesson and increased his speed, crashing the blade down on her skull again, slicing off a braided switch of hair, sending it flying across the bed.

Abby fell forward under the force of that blow, tearing away from Todd's grasp, slamming her face into the floor, her blubbering sobs now strangled and muffled; flailing, squirming to rise – but Todd was there, cursing, roaring _"You betrayed them!"_ at the top of his lungs as his knee drove into the small of her back, pinning her, as again and again he sent the hatchet into her skull, blood geysering hot over his face, washing over him, onto the bureau, the baseboard, the coverlet…His senses were reeling now, drunk on the smell of the blood, on the godlike power of taking life, a nectar Todd hadn't tasted in so long, too long…He straddled the woman's back, his left hand clamping onto her shoulder blade to keep her down, even though there was no longer any need. Her cries had stopped, giving way to a wet rattle that Todd barely heard as the hard bone finally gave under his hand, splintering out, crushing in, until the blade met no resistance, falling into a soft mass of tissue; and Todd watched, mesmerized, as the red pool beneath the woman's head spread and thickened over the floor, further painting the patterned carpet…

And he didn't stop until he heard, as if from a great distance, a woman's voice calling his name.

* * *

_"Mr. Todd!"_

Lizzie had left her ironing in the dining room when she'd realized the sound of her stepmother's cries had abated, but the sound of the barber's rage and the thumping of the hatchet hitting flesh, hadn't.

She'd trotted up the front stairs, pausing as her eyes drew level with the landing and looking across, along the line of the floor, so that she could see under the high bed frame; and she saw them – Mrs. Borden was clearly dead, face-down on the floor at the far side of the room; but Todd wasn't stopping, the hatchet continuing to pump up and down, sinking into brain now, with a nauseating sucking noise, instead of bone.

Lizzie swallowed her revulsion and – cautiously – approached the doorway. From here, all she could see was the furious motion of the hatchet, and the top of Todd's disheveled head. She called his name at least four times before her final shout roused him.

He stopped with the hatchet raised high above his head, ready to deliver another blow, and his head snapped towards Lizzie. She actually drew back a step at the sight of his face – feral, snarling, drenched in liquid scarlet, his eyes like burning coals.

"Mr. Todd?" she said again, more quietly, and he seemed to begin to come to himself. The hand grasping the hatchet lowered, the barber blinked.

He turned to what was left of his victim, and after a moment he placed a steadying hand on the bureau and pushed off, rising to stand on shaky legs. "Lizzie," he said softly. "Don't come over here."

He didn't know she'd already seen enough from the landing; but she nodded and stayed put.

Todd drew the cloth from his coat pocket – the same cloth the hatchet had been wrapped in – and slowly, methodically, wiped down the blade.

"What's the time?" he asked, perfectly back to normal – as far as Lizzie could tell.

She took a breath before replying "Almost twenty past nine."

Todd nodded and started coming around the foot of the bed, heading towards the door.

"You need to get cleaned up, sir," Lizzie said as she stepped aside for him – suddenly wondering at the wisdom of allowing such a man into her house, wondering at her own safety in the presence of a man who could do…_that_ with such abandon.

But he only mumbled "Yes" and moved past her, down the stairs, through the first floor, and descended to the cellar.

* * *

"Mrs. Clarke!"

It was Borden.

Nellie's heart thumped almost painfully. "Right," she whispered to herself, as she removed her apron, straightened her dress, and walked confidently towards the front dining area, giving her cleavage a little pat to triple-check for the rent envelope she'd tucked there and laughing to herself at the thought of giving her money to a man who'd never live long enough to make use of it. And she knew that Sweeney would take it right back off the man's corpse in a matter of hours, so she was ready to part with it rather amiably.

"Mr. Borden," she greeted cheerfully, glancing surreptitiously at the clock. To her surprise, it was already quarter to ten. Barring any untoward obstacles, Sweeney had finished his task by now. Nellie didn't have to paste the smile on her face as she silently relished the irony that she already knew what Borden would only learn when he got home.

_But not until I let you leave, ya filthy ol' cur._


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimers: **See Chapter 1.

**A/N:** Fair warning, this is the longest chapter so far. I had considered splitting it into two but I felt that might interrupt the flow of events...But the payoff, I hope, is worth it...

I tried something different with the writing style for the murder here, but the format didn't come out the way I'd had it set up...**Review** and let me know how it is.

Just a note, Mrs. Borden's death in Chapter 10 has been slightly revised, to show more of Todd's inner thoughts (I hope).

Thanks as always to my reviewers - most of the time I don't have the first clue whether I'm on track with all this, and you help me know what's working. The story has progressed to this point because of YOU, so THANK YOU!!

Also - I am sad to say - we are nearing the end, folks. Only one or two chapters to go, depending on how the next chapter develops. I've really enjoyed writing this and will be sad to bid it farewell...

WARNING: VIOLENCE (but if you didn't know that by now...)

* * *

**11**

**Of Time, Justice, and Musk.**

"S'pose you want to do an inspection of the place, Mr. Borden?" said Nellie brightly, watching her landlord examine the flatware. She and Toby had put out the very best dishes that morning and had both had a good laugh about Borden wanting to raise the rent again when he saw such extravagance, and never being able to do so.

The old man didn't look at her as he answered. "After I have the rent in hand, Mrs. Clarke."

Nellie paused, creased her brow, and affected to mumble something to herself while glancing furtively around the shop.

Then Borden lifted his eyes. "Mrs. Clarke?"

"Hmm?"

He leaned forward and enunciated very slowly and clearly, as if speaking to a toddler. "The rent?"

"Oh! Yes. Well, you see, sir, I'm afraid I'm not exactly sure where it is."

Borden froze. His aspect was really rather sinister, looking at her like that, not moving, to all appearances not even breathing, his cold black eyes boring into her.

"Y'see," she plowed on, "my husband always takes care of that, as you know; and he's away at the moment, and I'm afraid he's neglected to tell me where he's left it."

"He doesn't typically leave it in the same place?" Borden asked, his voice monotone, lifeless.

"Oh, Mr. Borden," Nellie simpered, "he never tells _me_ anythin' about the business, y'know."

Borden's eyes narrowed, but he nodded slowly and sighed. "I can come back later this afternoon, I suppose," he said, sounding much put-upon; and Nellie's heart sank as she saw him turn towards the door.

"Well," she said, a bit too loudly, taking a step towards him, "you know, I could look for it. While you wait here."

Borden sighed again. For the first time, Nellie noticed that the man looked unwell. Probably a combination of the heat, the thick Prince Albert coat he always insisted on wearing, and the gone-off food that, according to Lizzie and Bridget, the Borden household was typically forced to consume. "Mrs. Clarke," Borden began, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation, "I am a very busy man this morning, I do not have time to wait about while you – "

"Well now Mr. Borden, sir, that's just it. You look like you could use a bit of a rest, if I might be so bold. Here," she said, drawing out a chair. "You take a seat and I'll get you a nice cold drink, and you won't have to make another trip later. Avoid the lunch rush. All those mill workers comin' in…you wouldn't want to get caught up in all _that_, would you now?"

Borden shook his head and accepted the proffered seat, sinking into it heavily. "I will allow you ten minutes, Mrs. Clarke."

Nellie bustled off into the kitchen; but once there she slowed down as if it were Sunday. She hummed to herself as she lethargically descended into the cold storage and made up a lemonade, then took a sip out of it before heading back up the stairs.

Borden looked about to pass out.

"Here you go," Nellie said, setting the glass down in front of him with a hard _thump_. "Now I'll go and see about that rent money, where can he have put it?..."

As she turned to "search" for the money, she saw the clock. Just a minute before ten. She was fairly certain Borden wasn't going anywhere within his threatened ten minutes, not with the way he was obviously feeling. But his illness also meant that he'd likely go straight home after leaving the bakery, rather than finish any other business around town – all the more imperative, then, to ensure that he did not leave before time. So Nellie strolled about the kitchen randomly slamming cupboards and drawers, then swept upstairs and aimlessly rummaged in the parlor, creating as much noise as she could without causing damage. She managed to kill more than fifteen minutes in this way before returning to Borden, who eyed her blearily as she casually removed the envelope from her bodice and said, "Found it."

But rather than approaching her landlord, she remained standing by the counter, the envelope dangling from her fingers, silently challenging him to come and take it.

Slowly, keeping his eyes on her, Borden rose and crossed the room. In her peripheral vision Davis' man was still there, but his back was to the windows and she silently willed him to turn around. She backed up until she felt the countertop at her back, as Borden closed in and leaned over her, his long arms on either side, hands resting on the counter, his face a mere two inches from hers.

"From the moment I first laid eyes on you, Mrs. Clarke," he said, "I thought your character might not be all that…_unsullied._"

Her eyes narrowed. "And what exactly do you mean by that, Mr. Borden?"

He leaned closer, his six-foot frame towering over her, practically pressing against her, and answered, unsmiling, his features a hard mask: "I think you're aware of my meaning." And his eyes flicked in the general direction of her bodice, so quickly she'd have missed it if she'd blinked.

This was much as she'd expected. Striving not to look as repulsed as she felt, she held Borden's eyes as she said huskily, "I'm a married woman, Mr. Borden."

She thought the corner of his mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly. "I've lived long enough to know that doesn't mean much to women like you, my dear."

_You sick bastard, I hope my Sweeney makes you suffer…_

Her eyelids drooped in what she hoped came across as a sultry expression. "And what exactly is a woman like me, Mr. Borden?"

He leaned closer, his hard, decrepit body fully pressing against her now, his eyes glittering as they traveled down her neck, across her chest, and she barely heard the word _wanton_ escape his lips, under his breath, almost as if he'd said it to himself and not to her.

She bit back a cry of disgust and smiled. "Well now, sir," she murmured, opening his coat and tucking the envelope into the inside pocket, then folding the lapel back onto his chest and giving it a lingering pat. "I suppose you'll want to take a look at the place now. I can show you up to the parlor, if you like." _Where in God's name is Davis' man?!_

He made no verbal reply but pushed off the counter, allowing her to escape, obviously struggling to conceal his rising lust. Nellie led the way up the stairs, opened the parlor door with trembling hands, and entered the room, Borden immediately following.

The only inspecting he was doing, of course, was of Nellie, who cursed her own foolishness at getting herself into this situation and surreptitiously taking stock of any and all blunt objects near to hand, in case she was rendered unable to reach the sewing scissors she'd tucked into her stocking that morning for just this situation. Borden was just stretching out a hand towards her hair when, mercifully, the shop bell tinkled, the door slammed, and a man's strong voice called out "Hallo? Are you open for business?" in the bakery below.

Nellie let out a breath. "You'll excuse me of course, sir," she said, as she turned to make a hasty exit.

But Borden caught her arm in a gnarled hand like a vise. "A bit early for customers, isn't it?"

"Well yes, most days; but on occasion we do get – "

"Ignore it," he growled, pulling her closer.

Nellie pouted up at him prettily. "Now Mr. Borden, surely a man of business such as yourself must understand I can't let a customer go. You'll want your rent three months from now, won't you?"

Clearly vexed, Borden let her go, and she left calmly, slowly, though her heart was pounding enough to make her sick and she wanted nothing more than to sprint down the stairs. When she reached the bakery, a dark man was standing near the counter, clutching his hat in his hands, casting an anxious look at her. She'd never been so glad to see anyone in her entire life.

"Mrs…Lovett, is it?" the stranger greeted in a hushed tone.

She nodded. "You're Mr. Davis' friend."

"Yes, Hiram Jones is my name." His courteous, soft-spoken manner didn't at all match his dangerous looks. It was almost comical.

"Well, Hiram Jones, it's bloody nice to meet you at long last."

"I'm sorry ma'am, I was watching the situation, but I didn't want to rush in and scare him off, there's too much time left. But obviously, when I saw him go upstairs with you I had to do something. Are you all right, ma'am?"

She nodded again, beginning to calm. "He'll be down in a minute, there's not much to see up there." Remembering the crucial time issue, she consulted the clock again. Just shy of twenty-five after ten. "Bugger," she muttered, letting out a sigh of frustration. She had to keep him here for another hour, at the very least.

"I think it best if I stay in here from now on," said Jones; but Nellie shook her head and replied "No, if he sees you we'll lose him – "

The sound of her landlord's footsteps on the stairs cut her off.

"Please Mr. Jones, just get back outside, I'll be all right," she said. The man was still hesitant to leave, but she took his arm and ushered him to the door – which just closed behind him when Borden appeared at the foot of the stairs.

* * *

Sweeney was pacing the floor of the Borden cellar, running the cloth over the already-clean blade of the hatchet, his bloodied coat draped over the edge of the nearby drywell, his sleeves still rolled up to his elbows from his earlier washing-up. His shirt and trousers were relatively clean, due to his coat absorbing most of the gore. While he was well aware that no amount of water was going to get all the blood out of his hair, he knew too that his locks were so dark they would hide much, concealing the color of the blood as it dried. All in all, things were progressing fairly well.

This was his thought only a moment before a wide-eyed Lizzie came flying down the cellar steps, breathlessly exclaiming "There's a problem, Mr. Todd."

His brow furrowed. "What is it?"

In reply she turned, and he followed her upstairs and into the back hall, where the sound of someone violently retching just beyond the side door met his ears.

"Maggie is ill," Lizzie explained. "She won't be able to go to Sargent's, we can't get her out of the house."

Intensely annoyed at this turn of events, Sweeney marched to the screen door. Sure enough, there was the maid, on her knees and doubled over, shaking pathetically. "What the devil's wrong with her? She was fine this morning."

Lizzie shrugged, shook her head. "I think it might be the heat, she was out in the sun washing windows for so long. Not to mention the mutton…"

Sweeney let out a long breath through his nose. "Keep her here then. Tell her to go up to her room and stay there. Best we can do."

Lizzie nodded. "After Father comes in, or her absence will look strange."

Todd's head jerked once in agreement, and he returned to the cellar, cursing the fact that so many hands were involved in this. So many more chances for plans to go awry. At least it hadn't taken much to clear up the evidence after all – really, all that involved was tidying himself up a bit. He took out his watch as his foot hit the dirt floor of the cellar: half-past ten. His thoughts went to Nellie. Surely Borden was there by now…Sweeney wondered if she was all right, wondered if Davis had kept his word about sending a reliable lookout…

"Be careful, Nell," he muttered to himself.

* * *

Hoping that Jones' interruption had sufficiently distracted the old man from his amorous intentions, Nellie quickly grabbed a dishtowel and started needlessly wiping down the counter, humming casually as if nothing untoward had occurred, observing Borden from the corner of her eye, waiting for him to move. She felt his eyes on her, but he didn't approach – instead he seemed to be glancing at the windows, possibly considering the wisdom of continuing his advances before the eyes of the wider world. He cleared his throat and said "I'll just take a look at the kitchen now, Mrs. Clarke," and turned and walked in that direction.

From that point, she knew it was only a matter of time.

Sure enough, two minutes later there was a roar of fury from the back of the building, followed by the crashing sound of shattering glass, making Nellie jump even though she'd been expecting it. She knew exactly what was happening: she'd left the liquor out and visible on purpose as an additional stalling aid, and she had no doubt that Borden was destroying the stash – a move she _hadn't_ anticipated.

At the sound of the commotion, Hiram Jones burst through the door, questioning her with his eyes; she shook her head and held up a finger, silently telling him to hold off. A minute later Borden reappeared, his face uncharacteristically red, clutching a bottle of whiskey, which he opened and, staring hard right into Nellie's eyes, slowly, deliberately upturned, spilling its contents onto the floor. Then he opened his hand and let the empty bottle fall.

"You shameless harlot," Borden seethed; and Nellie could simply not suppress the smirk that came to her face because, of all the things she could be rightly accused of (including shamelessness), that last description was not one of them. Unfortunately, however, her expression only seemed to agitate Borden even further. "You and the pathetic rabble that congregate here are perfect examples of the degeneration of morality in this age," the landlord went on. "You will vacate these premises within twenty-four hours."

And he turned towards the door.

Panic rose in Nellie as she called after him: "Mr. Borden! You haven't seen my husband's shop yet – "

He turned on his heel and spat, "That won't be necessary." Then he pushed past Hiram Jones, ignoring him completely, and stormed out the door, heading down South Main.

For a moment Jones and Nellie stood dumbstruck. Well, they couldn't tie the man down, could they?...

Nellie found the clock. It was only twenty-five minutes to eleven.

She let out a long sigh. That had been the longest fifty minutes of her life.

Hiram Jones broke the silence. "I'm sure Mr. Todd has been able to put everything in order by now."

Nellie nodded, but something still didn't feel right…Sweeney could handle an unforeseen circumstance, he'd be able to handle it when Borden showed up early…

Then it clicked, and her breath caught. Jones heard it and asked what was wrong.

"Toby," Nellie answered. "He's not going to get to the house 'till noon."

Jones' eyes widened in understanding.

"I have to find him," Nellie said, heading for the door. "I have to let him know he needs to get there _now_ – "

But Jones stopped her. "If you leave you'll need to close the shop, and it'll look strange. All three of you gone – "

"Well what the bloody hell do you suggest?!" she snapped.

"I'll find him." His eyes roved over the wall behind the counter, fastening on the photograph that hung there. "This is the boy here?"

"Yes."

Jones studied the picture, apparently trying to memorize it. "Any idea where he might be?"

Nellie's hand went to her forehead, her eyes squeezed shut, trying to think. "Try David Anthony."

Jones nodded. "Don't worry. I'll find him. The best thing you can do now is to stay here and make everything look normal."

Nellie laughed at that, but nodded.

Then Jones was gone, and Nellie was left to tend to her very mundane daily routine, feeling completely useless.

* * *

Bridget Sullivan had pulled herself together with an effort. She wasn't about to be the cause of failure – they'd come so far already; she knew that Mrs. Borden was gone. The thought did make her shudder, made her fear for her soul. She thought back to the first time she'd seen Todd – she'd known then, had _felt_ somehow, that he might be the kind of man capable of some intensely terrible things. But as the plan had taken shape, she came to the conclusion, in the late night hours when repose failed her and she heard her employer's footsteps making their way down the back stairs, that whatever evil Todd had done…if it could be put to the service of ending the evil of this house…well, she could live with that.

Just before her brief bout with sickness that morning, Bridget had started washing the insides of the windows and had left off in the dining room. She picked up there now, laboriously but determinedly scrubbing away at the glass. She didn't know how long she'd been at this task before a sound towards the back of the house caught her attention. It sounded like someone at the side door, and she wondered if Morse had come back…but no, he wouldn't have returned so soon, jeopardizing his own plot…

She dropped her rag into the water pail and stepped into the sitting room. The clock on the mantel announced quarter to eleven. Well, whoever it was it surely couldn't have been Mr. Borden; Mrs. Lovett was keeping him at the bakery…

But the voice that came drifting into the house, snarling curses as its owner vainly rattled the door, chilled Bridget's blood. It was Andrew Borden's voice. He was home, he was at the door, a full hour and fifteen minutes before he should have been.

* * *

Lizzie came flying into the sitting room – she'd seen her father coming rapidly down the street. Bridget was standing in the middle of the room, wringing her hands, whimpering "Oh, Miss Lizzie, what are we going to do?!"

Lizzie placed her hands on the maid's shoulders. "It's all right, Maggie; I latched the screen door and Mr. Todd is hidden away. Father will come to the front door, but all those locks are done too – I want you to go and let him in. Then go straight up to your room and don't come down 'till I call for you. Mr. Todd and I will handle the rest."

Maggie nodded and smiled bravely, and the two women regarded each other for a moment. Lizzie knew that Maggie had suffered in her own way these past two years, living with her own burden of this house's secrets. But soon – in only moments – it would all be over. Lizzie could barely believe it herself. _Over…finally over…_

The noise at the screen door had stopped, and Lizzie knew her father was heading towards the front. Her heart jumped – whether in fear or glad anticipation, she couldn't be sure. "Come on, Maggie," she said. "Almost done now."

* * *

Todd had heard Borden at the door and instantly whipped out his watch. Surely _that_ much time couldn't have passed…Indeed, it was only a quarter to eleven. What the hell had gone wrong?...

_Ah God…Nell…_

He ground his teeth. Something must have happened to her.

Filling quickly with a rush of power born of fury, he put his coat back on and swiftly found the hatchet, his hand closing warmly around its smooth handle before he tucked it away in its pocket. He rushed to the stairs, took them two at a time, images of Borden's blood filling his mind –

But just at the cellar door, he was stopped by the sound of Lizzie's voice coming from the sitting room. He was forced to wait – the first floor had to be clear before he acted.

"Maggie," Lizzie was saying. "You look unwell. Why don't you go up to your room and rest a bit before making dinner?"

Todd couldn't hear the maid's response; but a moment later he heard light steps coming down the hall just beyond where he was concealed behind the cellar door, and the back stairs creaking over his head. He assumed this was Bridget, getting out of the way as he'd instructed.

Then Borden's voice sounded: "Where is Abby?"

"Oh," Todd heard Lizzie reply. "She had a note this morning, from a sick friend, and went out to visit her. She should be back soon."

Borden grunted.

"Here, Father – why don't you rest on the sofa for a bit? You don't look well either. Honestly, between you and Mrs. Borden and Maggie, Dr. Bowen will have his hands full!" Lizzie chided, with a light chuckle.

Todd smiled to himself. _Good girl._ She'd placed Borden in perfect readiness for him.

"I think I'll go out to the barn, I want to find some tin to fix that door."

"Which door?" asked Borden.

"The screen."

"That door doesn't need repair."

"Of course it does," said Lizzie lightheartedly.

No other words were exchanged – not even a goodbye – before Todd heard Lizzie's steps pass him. For good measure, he supposed, she even tapped once, lightly, on the door, giving him a signal to proceed.

When he heard the screen door close behind her, he came out into the hall – through the kitchen – into the sitting room.

There was Borden – slumped on the far end of the sofa, his head already drooped in a half-doze. Like his wife, he gave no sign that he registered Todd's presence in the room.

Slowly, the barber padded across the carpet until he was standing directly in front of the man.

"Andrew Borden."

The old man's head lifted drowsily, and at first he didn't seem to recognize Todd. But after a moment his eyes widened. "You! Clarke! What the hell are you doing in my house!"

Todd smiled softly. "I think it's time we cleared up a little misunderstanding, sir. My name is not Clarke. It's Sweeney Todd. Formerly of Fleet Street, London."

Borden's eyes narrowed. "What is this nonsense, Clarke?"

"You don't listen very well, do you sir?" said Todd, beginning slowly to close the distance between them. "Like you never listened to your daughters' cries while you did whatever you pleased to them. I suppose you thought their pleas for you to stop were nonsense as well."

Borden's face contorted with rage. "How dare you – "

"No sir," Todd snarled. "How dare _you_."

He opened his coat and reached inside, his heart thundering, exulting with the power rising in him. "Your wife is dead upstairs, sir."

Borden's eyes widened. "Good God…"

Todd cocked his head in mock confusion. "D'you really think he'll hear you, sir? I'm not so sure."

Then the hatchet came forth, and Borden's horror-filled eyes latched onto it.

"For the love of God, Clarke! You're insane!"

Sweeney's lips curled into a grinning smirk. "Oh no, sir, I don't think so. But let me tell you what I _am_.

"I've killed many men, Mr. Borden. Far too many to number. But I like to think I never killed a man what didn't deserve it – either because he was better off out of his misery, or he was a walkin' obscenity like you. So today, Mr. Borden, I'm here to execute justice for your children, because they were never able to do so for themselves."

Borden's mouth twisted in anger as Todd's arm came back; but he made no move – _stupid git, just like his wife, can't believe anyone'd have the audacity_ – and as the barber's arm began to fall, suddenly it wasn't Borden's face before him, but Turpin's – Turpin at his mercy all over again.

With a great cry (_joy – fury – memory_), Todd brought the hatchet down, embedding it in Borden's face, severing the man's nose, splitting his lips, cracking his jaw.

"_That's for your daughter Emma!"_ Todd screamed.

The old man sucked in air in a ragged, noisy gasp; staggered backwards, his hands, rather than trying to beat Todd off, searching the air behind him for some kind of support.

The red haze came over Todd's vision, his blood burning and racing, as his arm snapped back and forward again – the blade dug into Borden's

_(Turpin's)_

cheekbone, completely laying his face open – hot scarlet, liquid life, surging over Todd, drowning him in its scent, filling his mouth with its metallic savor –

"_That's for your daughter Lizzie!"_

_(Turpin, yes, falling backwards, crashing into the sofa –)_

– Todd nearly leaping with ecstasy as he loomed over Borden, drove the weapon again into his head, splitting his eye, a sensation of _yielding_ traveling through the blade, up the handle, into Todd's hand: a sliver of bone coming loose within the skull –

"_That's for Sarah your wife!"_

– red spray across the wall, the white parlor door; Todd laughing now, within himself – Borden falling to his side, his mangled head coming to rest on the arm of the sofa – Todd crashing in with three quick blows in succession –

"_That's for my Lucy!"_

Todd slowly moved around to the head of the sofa, keeping his eyes on Borden, taking his time, watching the man quivering in his death throes, enjoying the sound of his stertorous gasping –

_(Turpin lying there, twitching, refusing to die –)_

Borden's head jerking as the next blow landed square on his temple, the pressure squeezing his damaged eye out of its socket –

"_That's for my Eleanor!" _

– the jelled orb suspended from its nerve, lolling on Borden's mutilated cheek –

Todd couldn't tell whether the man was dead. He hoped not, because he wanted his voice heard as he quietly said, "And this is for my Johanna, you evil bastard."

And the blows rained down until nothing was left of Andrew Borden's face, until his very identity was obliterated, until his skull gave in, driving into his brain under the barber's fevered hand.

* * *

If Mr…Jones, was it?...hadn't found him at David Anthony's – well, Toby shuddered to think what might have happened. _But it didn't,_ he reminded himself again, to keep from panicking. _Everything's all right now. Everything's back on track._

He was fairly certain no one had seen him as he slipped into the shade of the pear orchard and paused behind a tree, trying to collect his thoughts. The City Hall clock had chimed eleven a few (five? ten?) minutes before; but since the plan had been altered Toby had no idea what was going on in the Borden house right then. He remembered Mr. Todd mentioning something about the fence being loosened to allow access to the yard…Toby decided to test this and fumbled with the slats until one came loose under his hand.

He had a perfect view into the Borden yard and could see the cellar door where Mr. Todd would emerge – soon, he hoped. Someone was bound to notice a boy loitering about in a pear orchard, particularly since the local boys were notorious for purloining the Chagnon pears every chance they got. "Hurry up, Mr. T," the lad muttered.

* * *

Sweeney stood observing the carnage he'd wrought, panting, leaning against the blood-spattered doorframe, until he heard Lizzie enter the side door and come down the hall. He tucked the hatchet away, strode through the dining room, and intercepted her in the kitchen _just_ as she was placing a hand on the sitting room door.

"Lizzie," he said forcefully, careful not to touch her because of the blood on his hand.

Lizzie started, turning to him, and when she saw his drenched face and coat, the beginnings of tears formed in her eyes. Sweeney couldn't understand her reaction, and his brow creased.

Lizzie shrugged. "He was my father after all, Mr. Todd. The only father I'll ever have, in spite of everything."

Sweeney paused, still confused, and slightly angered that his efforts weren't more appreciated; but he simply nodded and said, "Don't go into the room. Call Bridget now, send her for Bowen." And he started towards the cellar.

"Will you be all right from here on, Mr. Todd?"

He nodded brusquely and descended, Lizzie closing the door behind him, and he heard her call at the foot of the back stairs: _"Maggie! Come down quick! Father's dead…"_

There wasn't much time now.

Todd hastily removed his coat and shirt and stuffed them, with the hatchet and its cloth, into the triple-nested burlap sacks designated for the purpose. He then washed in the sink, quickly ran a towel over his head and arms, and changed into the waiting shirt and coat Morse had left for him. After shoving the towel into the bag as well, he cast a last glance around to make sure nothing was getting left behind –

"Oh, Mrs. Churchill," Sweeney heard Lizzie saying above him. "Do come over…someone has killed Father…" And there was the sound of a woman's shoes clicking on the porch…

He waited until the two women's steps moved into the back hall and made for the cellar door. Once outside, he sprinted to the fence like a man on fire.

* * *

There was a commotion at the side door of the house – Miss Sullivan was running down the porch stairs and across the street, and Miss Lizzie was shouting "Run and fetch Dr. Bowen, Maggie! I must have a doctor!"

She remained at the door, looking out; and it wasn't sixty seconds before Toby heard a woman's voice, coming from off to the right somewhere – he couldn't see her – saying "Why Lizzie, is something the matter? I see Bridget running for Dr. Bowen's house…"

"Oh, Mrs. Churchill," Lizzie answered, "do come over…someone has killed Father…"

Toby soon saw a woman come into view beyond the front of the barn, and head into the house with Lizzie. That was when he started to panic. _People all over the house already, and where the blazes is Mr. Todd?!..._

No sooner had this thought troubled him than said Mr. Todd appeared, bursting out of the cellar as planned, clutching a dark bundle to his chest and tearing across the yard faster than Toby would ever think the man could run. The boy stood aside to allow the barber through the fence, and he nearly fell through it. Toby immediately relieved him of the bundle, which smelled _horrible_.

It smelled like the bake house.

"Did you do it, sir?" asked Toby, though he already knew the answer.

"Yes," Todd grunted.

"So it's all here, then?"

"_Yes,_ now get out of here and don't stop for anything or anyone until you get home."

And Mr. Todd vanished among the shadows of the trees, leaving Toby to make his way to the river with the reeking bundle.

* * *

True to her word, Nellie ran the bakery as if nothing out of the ordinary were occurring. She'd been elated when Hiram Jones had returned and informed her that he'd found Toby, that the lad was at that moment on his way to Second Street. Then all she'd had to do was wait. And worry.

She glanced at the clock for the umpteenth time as she performed her practiced lunch-hour routine for a gathering crowd of hungry mill workers. Twenty to twelve. Two minutes after the last time she'd looked. She wondered if she'd even know when Sweeney came in, as they'd agreed it would be best for him to return via the back door into the pantry.

She wasn't sure how much time had passed – she was exercising extreme self-control in forcing herself not to look at the clock anymore – before the shop door flew open and one of her regulars rushed in shouting "Andrew Borden's been murdered!"

Good Lord, word had gotten out fast…Sweeney would be coming home soon…

The shop erupted in chaos – some men cheering, tossing their caps in the air, getting up to dance a jig between the tables; others obviously thunderstruck, disbelieving – shocked that such a thing could happen in their quiet town, the brazenness of it...Whatever their reactions, all of them suddenly began crowding to the door, pushing past one another on their way to rubberneck the scene of the crime.

"Ain't ya comin', Mrs. C?"

"Ah, no, I need to clean up the mess you've all made here," Nellie replied good-naturedly, successfully keeping a tremor out of her voice.

"Suit yourself," the young man said, ducking out the door to follow his comrades; and the shop was empty.

There was indeed a mess; but it could wait. Nellie locked the doors – no one would pay any mind at this point to the fact that the shop had closed for the day, with the murder to occupy their attention. In fact, Nellie suspected the whole town might shut down as word of the shocking event spread. She went up to the parlor and poured herself some strong gin, trying to calm her nerves, waiting for Sweeney.

She didn't have to wait long.

Suddenly he was there, throwing open the parlor door, standing motionless, staring at her with a strange look in his eyes.

"Did he touch you?"

She shook her head.

No – not a _strange_ look, just…unfamiliar. Now. It was the same look she used to see when he'd come to her after he'd slaughtered a man; after they'd exchanged glances across the stairs to Todd's shop; after she'd erased his crimes with stunning success. When the unity of their purpose would find expression in another kind of unity.

She could smell it on him, even across the room. He'd obviously cleaned up well; she couldn't _see_ any traces of his bloody deeds, but…how well she remembered that smell: the scent of gore and sweat and the fever of his dark energy in action. Anyone else would have been repulsed, would have fled; but in Nellie Lovett, an intense arousal was building, just as it always had before. On Sweeney Todd, the aroma of death was like musk.

She well knew what was coming; but it had been so long…she wondered if he would be the same as before, or if the changes she'd seen in him over the past months would have softened him in this instance.

She hoped not. Only now was she beginning to realize how much she'd missed this particular quality of their relationship.

"Sweeney," she ventured, her breath coming faster, taking a tentative step towards him.

He didn't move.

"Mr. Todd."

As if that name was somehow a trigger that released him, he sprang across the room, tearing off his coat, flinging it aside, and seized Nellie in his arms, kissing her savagely, snarling her name, trying to get the shoulder of her dress down with his teeth.

It made her smile. _No, it's just the same, he's just the same when it comes to this…_

"You got him, love," she whispered, breathless.

"Yes…love…"

She laughed huskily, returning his exquisitely brutal assault, matching his ferocity equally with her own. And when neither of them was capable of standing upright anymore, they wrestled each other to the floor, entangled, jubilant, devouring, ravishing each other while the world outside reeled in the wake of the havoc they'd created.

* * *


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimers:** See chapter 1.

The newspaper excerpts in this chapter are lifted verbatim from the Fall River _Herald_ for Friday, 12 August, 1892.

**A/N:** THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU to all my reviewers!!

This story has over 1,300 hits, I'm so pleased!

You know, I'd love to make a video for this story but since we don't have any video of the Bordens it might be tough...oh well, anyway: There will be at least one more chapter and perhaps an epilogue.

There's a character in here named John Fleet. This story is getting overloaded with guys named John but that was his real historical name...

There's a letter from Morse and a newspaper excerpt in this chapter. I've underlined them both, since the format I intended for them didn't come out.

Enjoy...

* * *

**12**

**A Discovery, an Arrest, and Unwelcome Visitors.**

Fall River was in an abject panic the likes of which it had never experienced before. This was made patently evident when John Morse walked down to the post office on the evening of the murders, dropped some letters and bills into the box, and was chased back to 92 Second Street by a mob out for the blood of any candidate for the fiend who would so brazenly violate the sanctity of a respectable home in broad daylight to ruthlessly slaughter its elderly inhabitants.

The city was in nothing less than the very grip of terror.

Lizzie Borden, however, was enjoying the first peaceful night she could remember for…oh, a very long time.

In the pre-dawn hours of the morning after the deaths of her father and stepmother, though, Lizzie awoke at around four o'clock.

She wasn't certain what had awakened her, and she was somewhat disoriented at first, not being accustomed to waking from such a deep and undisturbed sleep. So the sounds she was hearing – the creaking of the stair, the padding across the hall – the shuffle at her door – may have been nothing more than the lingering presence of a dream, or a nightmare.

Perhaps.

She couldn't get back to sleep after that, though, and was glad when she heard Emma stirring in the adjoining room.

Lizzie couldn't help but recall this episode when, later that day, Mayor Coughlin came for a visit. Then, she felt her dream – if indeed it had been a dream – had been an ill omen.

She welcomed him into the parlor – by prearrangement, Bridget had left the house the day of the murders, going to stay with Dr. Bowen and his family. It would be better this way – Bridget's fearful departure from the house would go far towards showing her aversion to the crime and thus her innocence. So it was Lizzie who admitted His Honor and offered him tea, which he refused, while offering him a seat. Emma and Uncle John had come to greet the mayor as well; and after some few minutes of small talk that esteemed personage got to the real point of his visit.

"Well," he began, with a small clearing of his throat, "allow me to once again express my very deep condolences on your…loss."

Lizzie accepted this sentiment with a nod, and Emma said "Thank you, Mr. Coughlin."

The mayor looked down for a moment before continuing. "I…have come to ask a favor of you all. I…think it would be best for all concerned if…no one left the house for a while. At least for the next few days."

Lizzie's eyes narrowed. "Why?" she asked. "Is someone in this house suspected?"

"Ah, well," said the mayor, clearing his throat again, a bit less delicately. "I'm sure you're aware that it might be…hazardous; particularly in light of what happened to your uncle yesterday evening."

Morse snorted a sarcastic laugh.

But Lizzie was far from laughing: her heart seemed to plummet to the pit of her stomach, and she had to remind herself to breathe. "I want to know the truth," she said.

"Well, Miss Lizzie, I wouldn't – now there's no need to – "

"I want to know the truth."

She heard her sister let out a deep sigh. Uncle John just stayed silent, keeping his eyes on the floor. So the time had come at last…she'd known it would, despite everyone's assurances that the case would never go to trial for lack of evidence…

The Mayor was speaking, but she barely heard him. It didn't matter – she'd known what he would say.

"Well…I regret to say very much, but I must say…Yes, Miss Lizzie. _You_ are suspected."

* * *

Emma Borden had taken over the inheritance, holding Lizzie's share in trust, and was allowing Sweeney Todd, Nellie Lovett, and Toby Ragg to remain at their establishment – rent-free – for as long as they liked. Thus the Saturday following the murders found the barber at his work as usual, shaving one of Nellie's regular customers, an Irish mill worker who'd come in after his lunch at the bakery. Just as he was finishing up, the shop's street door bell tinkled and Todd heard a man's heavy tread cross to the waiting area, followed by the sound of a creaking chair as the newcomer settled himself into it. Absorbed in his work, the barber did not look up until his job was done and he was handing the Irishman a towel.

"There you are, Mr. O'Connor," said Todd.

"Thank you Clarke, and what do I owe ya?"

"Not a penny, sir."

"Ah, come on now – "

"I insist. Go and buy something for that little baby girl of yours instead."

O'Connor beamed. "God bless ya, Mr. Clarke," he said, fetching his hat from the stand and bowing his way out the door.

It was only then that Sweeney turned his attention to the uniformed man seated in the waiting area.

It wasn't unusual for police to come in for a shave, particularly those Irish coppers who worked Corky Row. But Sweeney had never seen this gentleman before – piercing eyes, a bristling handlebar moustache, his uniform immaculate, its buttons and badge polished to a reflective gleam. The barber casually observed him as he readied his equipment, trying to size him up. He looked as if he meant business but was making an attempt at nonchalance. Sweeney decided not to jump to conclusions – after all, he saw plenty of new customers from day to day; this officer might be no different…

"Good day to you, sir," said Todd, ever the professional; and the officer rose with a polite smile and returned the greeting. "What may I do for you this morning?"

"Deputy Marshal John Fleet, Mr. Clarke. It's a pleasure."

"Likewise, sir."

"I think I'd just like a shave and a trim of my moustache today."

"Certainly, sir." The barber gestured to the chair, and the policeman seated himself and settled back, closing his eyes contentedly, awaiting Todd's ministrations. Todd himself was determined to make the deputy marshal speak first – not to give the man a chance to twist anything he might say and then run with it.

"I've heard you're the best barber in Fall River, Mr. Clarke," said Fleet, breaking the silence, and Todd smiled as he fastened the sheet around the officer's neck.

"That is what some say, sir."

"I also understand that you rent this property from Mr. A.J. Borden – or did."

Todd grunted. _So now we come to it._ Just a shave and a trim indeed.

"Terrible tragedy, Mr. Clarke – terrible. Don't you agree?"

"I'll ask you to remain still now, Deputy Marshal. I'm going to begin your trim."

Silence reigned for a moment while Todd procured his clippers and began working on Fleet's moustache – noticing that there really wasn't much that needed trimming.

"How did you find Mr. Borden as a landlord, Mr. Clarke?"

"Oh, I don't know, sir. S'pose I've had worse."

"Had a bit of a reputation for raising rents if his tenants prospered," Fleet remarked casually. "Ever do that to you?"

"Oh yes, sir."

"Made you angry, did it?" Fleet chuckled.

Todd wanted to stab the clippers into the man's smug face. Who did he think he was fooling with all this nonsense, all this false camaraderie?..."Well sir, no one like to have the rent brought up, do they?"

"Well – "

"Not like we couldn't afford it though, sir. Didn't do us no hardship."

Fleet cleared his throat, and it was a moment before he went on. Todd knew he was trying to mentally assess a different tack for this interrogation – because there could be no doubt, at this stage, that this was indeed an interrogation.

"I've heard that Miss Lizzie Borden is a frequent customer of your wife's."

Todd said nothing.

"And that she – Mrs. Clarke, that is – obtains her provender from David Anthony."

Todd moved away from him to replace the clippers and began the lathering process. "You'd best ask my wife about all that kind of thing, Officer."

"Hm, I _am_ growing famished. Perhaps I will stop in after we're done here."

Todd approached and tilted the man's head back, exposing his throat and the vein that pulsed there. Fleet didn't speak for a time; but suddenly, quietly, he broke the silence again:

"Your accent is unusual for these parts, Mr. Clarke. May I ask where you're from?"

"England."

Fleet chuckled. "Yes, that much is obvious, sir. You know, I grew up in Lancashire, came to the States as a young man looking for work."

_Ah, bloody hell._

"But _where_ exactly in England are you from, Mr. Clarke?"

"Bristol." Sweeney knew this was a useless ruse with this particular man; but he figured consistency was best.

"Mm," Fleet noised curiously, his brows contracting. The barber felt the deputy marshal's eyes on him as he turned and carefully selected a razor from his kit. "Sounds more like London."

Sweeney cursed himself for the barely noticeable pause his hand made over the officer's neck. He'd underestimated this man – he was astute, shrewd. Caution was called for.

"Well sir, I've spent some time in London. Did my apprenticeship there."

"Oh? That explains it. With whom?"

Todd smirked. "Man by the name of Benjamin Barker."

"Mm."

Then, acting as if the thought had only just entered his head, Fleet said: "Do you know what we've learned recently from Scotland Yard, Mr. Clarke?"

Todd's jaw clenched; he hated himself for rising to the bait, playing this ridiculous game. "Go on, sir."

"Terrible things. Worse than what's happened in this city the past few days. Barber by the name of Sweeney Todd and his mistress, one Eleanor Lovett."

Todd drew a deep breath, trying to mask it as a sigh of boredom. "And what about them, sir?"

"Oh, I hesitate to say it, Mr. Clarke. _Dreadful_ things. _Ghastly_ things. Murder, sir, mass murder; and…" here he cleared his throat delicately, "cannibalism."

"Indeed?"

"Yes; you see this Eleanor Lovett was a baker…well, I won't shock you with the details. Also wanted is the baker's apprentice, one Tobias Ragg. Eleven years old or thereabouts at the time; must be about twelve or thirteen by now. Disappeared the same night as the other two. No more than an accomplice himself, in spite of his tender age."

Todd withdrew the blade and stepped back, looking Fleet directly in the eye.

"It's comical, you know, Mr. Clarke," the officer continued, smiling confidently, his eyes gleaming – he _knew_ that the barber knew he was toying with him. "Because _y__ou're_ a barber, and your…your ah, _wife_ is a baker; and there's that young boy living here with you. Your son, I mean. Only…" he appeared to scrutinize Todd's face, focusing on his hairline, "this Sweeney Todd is said to have an odd streak of white in his hair, just…_there_. And clearly," he continued with a laugh, "you don't have that, Mr. Clarke."

"I should hope not, Deputy Marshal."

Todd tossed the man a towel, and he rose while wiping his chin. "Do you know, Mr. Clarke, what Lizzie Borden said to me when I questioned her two days ago?"

Todd said nothing, only met the officer's gaze with defiance.

Fleet approached until he was practically nose to nose with the barber. "I asked her what her mother had been about that morning, before she was killed. I said, 'When was the last time you saw your mother alive, Miss Lizzie?' And do you know what she answered me? She said, 'She is not my mother, sir. She is my stepmother. My mother died when I was a child.' Now I ask you, Mr. Clarke – what manner of woman possesses such a lack of filial sentiment? What cold-hearted manner of person would say such a thing, in such a tone as I heard it, and under such horrible circumstances?"

Todd's hand tightened on the razor he still held. He was constrained by the daylight…and an officer of the law would surely be missed; he'd surely informed his comrades of his whereabouts…Sweeney told himself to wait, they needed time to leave the city…

"You and your…_family_ arrive in Fall River the instant Todd and Lovett go missing from London. Lizzie Borden is seen in the company of David Anthony in this very establishment. She and your wife are friendly. And now her parents are dead and here you are, Mr. _Clarke_."

"I think it's time you come right out and say what you're insinuating, sir." Todd growled, his voice full of barely-contained rage and frustration.

"I never insinuate, sir. I prove."

Then Fleet produced some crisp bills from the inner pocket of his uniform coat, folded them neatly, and stuck them in the breast pocket of Sweeney's jacket, saying "I thank you for an excellent shave, sir. I think I'll go and have my dinner now. Don't bother to come in. I'm going to question your wife without your interference."

And he walked up the steps to the connecting door and stepped through.

Sweeney instantly bolted into action, grabbing a valise he'd been keeping on hand and stuffing it as full as it could hold.

* * *

Nellie had been subjected to much the same treatment as Sweeney under Fleet's scrutiny, and had reacted in much the same manner, putting Toby in charge of the dinner hour and rushing upstairs to ready their belongings for a hasty escape. But that evening, none other than Hiram Jones stopped at the bakery for a drink – never letting on that he'd ever seen its proprietress before – and slipped her a note as he left. She retreated to the storage cellar to read it – didn't recognize the handwriting and skimmed to the bottom of the page, seeking a signature.

It was from John Morse.

My dear Mr. Todd and Mrs. Lovett:

I understand you have come under the skillful eye of the Fall River Police.

You will be tempted to leave the city under these circumstances. Do not do so.

The police have nothing solid against you. If you run now, you will only attract

their further notice, announce your culpability, and be pursued before provisions

can be made for your safe escape.

I am at this moment making arrangements with friends in Iowa to receive you

when the time is right. In the meantime, trust me that the best course of action is

to remain in the city.

I am, yours most sincerely,

John V. Morse.

Nellie showed the note to Sweeney during a lull in the workday – they decided to keep its contents from Toby, at least for the time being – and with very great reluctance they agreed to take Morse's advice.

But they left the bags packed.

It wasn't until the evening of August twelfth, six days later, that they found it necessary to defy their benefactor and take matters into their own hands.

Nellie and Sweeney were relaxing in the parlor over a glass of the best wine they had (figuring they might as well drink it up before they had to leave it behind in a hurried departure), when suddenly Toby burst in, waving a newspaper and panting "Mum! Mr. Todd!" and not much else, being completely winded.

"Where you been?" Nellie asked, trying to hide a smile as Sweeney took the paper from the boy. "Runnin' all the way from Providence by the looks o' you."

But he only gestured to the paper Sweeney was now perusing with furrowed brow. Nellie went to glance over Sweeney's shoulder; but he'd apparently already read any information of interest because he wordlessly handed her the paper, not looking at her, and went to gaze out the window. He clearly wasn't in the mood to discuss whatever riveting news the paper contained, so Nellie let him alone, reading silently. It was the Fall River _Herald_ that Toby had brought them, and the headline screamed:

THE POLICE MOVE.

Lizzie Borden Arrested for Killing Her Father.

THE WARRANT SERVED AT CENTRAL STATION

In Presence of Her Sister and Mr. Jennings.

A PLEA OF NOT GUILTY ON ARRAIGNMENT.

A Suspicion That Others Were Concerned in the Tragedy.

It was that last line that grabbed Nellie's attention, and her eyes frantically scanned the article for any hint of her, Sweeney's, or Toby's involvement.

She found it.

Apparently, one Dr. Handy had been nagging the police for the better part of the past week regarding a strange man with a "deathly white" complexion walking in the direction of Second Street on the morning of the fourth:

The condition of the case at this stage is therefore as follows: The police believe

that Lizzie Borden was not alone in the commission of the two crimes of last

Thursday, and they have evidence in their possession which makes them consider

it necessary to go further in the direction of the people interested in affairs at the

Borden house than they have hitherto expected to go. They suspect that Lizzie had

a confederate or assistants.

The clue given by Dr. Handy is one that should be followed up, and most certainly

will be. It is not only important that the mysterious stranger should be located but absolutely necessary. If he was a paid confederate, it is likely that he would not

be able to bear up against a rigid cross-examination. The strange actions of the

man when seen by Dr. Handy, his nervous appearance, conclusively prove that

he was in some way connected with the crime.

Surely this was not an accurate description of Sweeney, who certainly never possessed a "nervous appearance" and could not be described as a "stranger", as his professional reputation had made him a bit of a well-known figure in Fall River. Nor did the time match – Handy claimed to have seen this suspicious character at around 10:30, and Sweeney was already at the Borden house by that time, had already killed Abby Borden. More likely Handy had seen one of Davis' or Howe's decoys wandering strategically about the neighborhood streets.

Still…

The police were convinced there were accomplices, and were actively pursuing them.

"Bugger", she said under her breath, and looked up to find Sweeney. He was still glaring out the window, and she knew him well enough to know exactly what was going through his mind.

"Mum," Toby's small voice interrupted her thoughts.

"Not now, dear."

"But Mum – "

She folded the paper neatly, placed it on the marble-top. "Toby," she said, her voice firm. "Go along to your room now. I need to talk with Mr. Todd."

"Mum, you're gonna want to listen to me – "

Their relationship had progressed to such a point that Nellie seldom had to use words with the boy – a particular glare was frequently eloquent enough to make her point, and such was the case now. Toby trooped off to his room, but he slammed the door, indicating his clear displeasure.

Nellie just shook her head and turned her attention on Sweeney.

She approached him slowly, as she always did when he was in such a frame of mind. She stood just behind his shoulder for a few moments, allowing him to adjust to her presence before quietly speaking.

"Wonderin' what the point's been, hey love?" she said. "She's just gone from one kind of imprisonment to another." Gingerly, as if dealing with a skittish wild animal, she laid a hand on his arm. "I know, darlin'."

"No, you don't. You have no idea."

Her hand dropped to her side, and she regarded him cautiously, her eyes narrowed. She knew what this was all about. Her mind traveled back to that night…how long ago had it been?...when he'd told her the past had been exorcized. "No ghosts", he'd said then, as he'd held her so close in his arms and she'd allowed herself to imagine love in his voice. _Now who's the liar, Sweeney Todd?..._

She was shaking her head slowly. "How many times are you gonna have to kill Turpin before he's finally dead enough for you?"

He rounded on her, his black eyes angry – and something else – conflicted? Weary? Pleading – but pleading for what, Nellie didn't know. She only knew that she was melting under that gaze, her own anger at his treasuring of the past crumbling before it, giving way to a kind of grief for him. His face was twisted with rage, but she couldn't fear him – all she felt as she gazed on his features – worn down by his life like a bluff worn down by relentless waves, handsome with the same kind of pathos as a blasted, once-majestic oak tree – all she felt was love, and she knew she always would. She was trapped by it, this bittersweet imprisonment that kept her bound to this man, kept her heart in chains she had no desire to break. _I love you, Sweeney, I love you…God, you'll never know how much…_

She realized she'd uttered the last words of this thought aloud. Sweeney's expression softened into a mild frown, and he seemed about to say something – but turned away and resumed staring down at South Main as if trying to memorize it.

Nellie sighed deeply. She reminded herself to accept – whatever he had to give, even his silence, even his rejection, if it meant he would stay with her.

"Think I'll turn in, love," she said at last, consciously injecting brightness into her voice. But just as she turned from him, she felt her hand taken, her fingers laced in his, being gently drawn to his side.

He still wasn't looking at her, but his hand was firm and strong around hers, silently asking her to stay with him. So she moved close enough to rest her head on his shoulder, sharing his gaze out the window. But although his gesture had heartened her, she had a feeling they were each seeing very different landscapes.

* * *

Sweeney didn't know how long they stood there. Nor did he particularly care – he was simply content to bask in their quiet closeness.

"_How many times are you gonna have to kill Turpin…"_

It was astonishing, how well she knew him. He'd wanted to rage at her for that comment, but he couldn't. He had no answer to her question. He didn't know how many times he'd have to see Turpin in other men, and kill him in them, before he would feel and know it was truly the end.

Nellie softly broke the silence, and his thoughts. "I'm gonna miss this place," she said, with a wistful smile.

This was a surprise. Sweeney turned to her and said "I thought you hated it here. The smoke, the factories, the crowds. Too much like London, you always said."

She shrugged, kept looking out the window. "Yeah, but…we _have_ had some good times here…and it's the first real home we've ever had, ain't it? The three of us, like a family."

She wasn't looking at him, but he could tell that she cast her gaze to the floor, and he knew that last sentiment had slipped out. He sensed she was sorry she'd said it, but he wasn't sure why she would be. He turned back to the window, suspecting she might not want him looking at her just then; but his thumb rubbed her palm and he said, "We'll make a new home wherever we end up, Nell."

His hand was squeezed, and he turned to her. She was looking up at him now – the flickering gaslight glowing softly on her skin, glittering in her eyes, shining on her hair like gilded fire. Her eyes were asking him if he really meant those words; and he found that he did – suddenly he wanted to give her everything, but still wasn't sure that he could.

Tentatively, he reached out to touch one of those unruly locks. _My flame-haired goddess…_

"_You'll never know how much,"_ she'd said. Oh, but he did. All too well.

_I love you madly,_ he told her in his mind._ Marry me._

"Nellie…" he began, unable to face her now, his eyes on the floor…he could practically hear the beating of her heart, as if she knew what he wanted to say…"What is it, love?" she breathed –

He traced her cheek with a single finger, and said, "Go on to bed. I'll be along."

* * *

_"Mum! Mr. Todd!"_

Sweeney sincerely hoped he was having a nightmare. It was, after all, the dead of night.

THUMP THUMP THUMP!! _"Mr. TODD!"_

"Bloody…"

Nellie was stirring beside him. "What on earth – "

The pounding on the bedroom door was not letting up, Toby continually calling for them…When Nellie registered his voice, she was out of bed in an instant, wrapping up in a dressing gown. Sweeney, closer to the door, angrily pulled on some trousers and flung wide the door, causing Toby to literally stumble into the room.

"What is it, Toby?" Sweeney rumbled.

"Downstairs," the lad replied, now speaking in a hushed tone. "Some men just broke in through a window, and they're headin' up here right now…"

* * *

**A/N:** I'm not entirely satisfied with this chapter and I can't figure out why, so **please review** and let me know potential areas for improvement. Thanks!!


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimers: **See chapter 1.

**A/N: **This is the end, beautiful friends...

I want to once again thank you, my readers, for taking the time to read this. You have no idea how honored I've been to find the hit level on this, knowing you've spent your valuable time on this story. And to my reviewers and subscribers - an extra ginormous THANK YOU!!

A sequel **will** be written...as soon as I can think of a plot...er, I'm open to suggestions, plots not being my strong suit...

**This is the last chapter, but don't forget to go on to the epilogue!!...**

One last note: The same thing happened with the formatting on the newspaper articles and letters, so as in the last chapter, they are underlined to mark them off.

And now...

* * *

**13**

**The Flight from Fall River.**

Sweeney exchanged a glance with Nellie, and knew they were both thinking the same thing.

They would be leaving tonight.

"Stay here."

"No, I'm comin' with you – "

"Keep _him_ here," Sweeney insisted, jabbing a finger at Toby, thinking that would be the one thing to make her stay put. For a moment, he thought he was right: she glared at him, but didn't follow. But as soon as he was past the bedroom door he heard footsteps behind him, and knew the two of them were at his back. A stab of fear shot through him, concern for Nellie's safety; but he knew it would be useless to argue. She was like a lioness defending her den, and he knew there'd be no stopping her. One of the things he loved about her, actually…

He just hoped these invaders didn't have firearms, because the fireplace poker Nellie grabbed on her way through the parlor certainly wouldn't have any effect against them.

Sweeney's hand was almost on the parlor door when it flew open, nearly knocking him off balance.

He only had a fraction of a second to assess the situation: it looked like three men were trying to push into the room, but he couldn't be sure because he immediately seized the first one, whipping him around and wrapping an arm around his neck, grasping his hair with his other hand. Sweeney tried to kick the door against the other two, but his adversary was violently flailing his legs and Sweeney couldn't get near enough. _"Door!"_ he grunted between his teeth, and instantly Toby threw himself against the door – but he wasn't strong enough for two grown men, and the remaining intruders shoved past him.

Toby instantly launched himself at the first man through the door, latching on to his back and throwing a forearm over the invader's eyes. The last one was closing in on Sweeney and yelling something that got lost in the general ruckus. Keeping his struggling opponent under control by tightening his grip on his hair, Sweeney shifted his other arm to wrap around the man's middle and arched his back, lifting his opponent off the floor and causing his still-thrashing feet to lash out. The approaching invader jumped aside to avoid getting kicked, which placed him in a perfect position for Nellie to land the poker solidly on his head, causing him to stagger and fall.

At this, Toby's quarry, still attempting to pry the boy's arms away from his eyes, managed to shout "John Morse sent us!"

Sweeney did not release his hold right away, but when the man who'd spoken finally succeeded in throwing Toby off, the barber took his first good look.

It was O'Connor – the customer Sweeney had been shaving right before Deputy Marshal Fleet had come in that day. Astonished, Sweeney finally loosed his hold on his captive, sending the man staggering and gasping mild curses.

Nellie apparently recognized O'Connor in the same moment, because her poker-brandishing arm fell and she said "Bleedin' _Christ_, ya crazy Irishman! Nearly got yourself killed! What d'you mean breakin' in here like this?!"

"Sorry for that, Mrs. Lovett ma'am," O'Connor said, grinning sheepishly, "but this is no time for pleasantries like knocking. You've read today's _Herald_, yeah?"

Nellie and Sweeney both nodded. "Lizzie was arrested," said Sweeney. "They're lookin' for accomplices."

Adopting a serious aspect now, O'Connor produced a scrap of newspaper from his hip pocket and offered it to Sweeney. "Lot more to it than that I'm afraid, sir."

"That's what I _tried_ to tell you earlier," said Toby breathlessly, retrieving the neatly folded newspaper from the marble-top where Nellie had left it earlier that evening and holding it out to the room in general. Nellie reached for it in the same moment that Sweeney took O'Connor's copy. "Page two," Toby offered; and while she found the page, Sweeney scanned his own crinkled fragment.

MANHUNT!

Scotland Yard Seeks Demon Barber and His Accomplice.

Pair Escaped to United States after Dastardly Crimes;

Believed Still at Large on the East Coast.

The shocking case of last year's mass murder spree in London, focused upon a

seemingly innocuous meat pie emporium and tonsorial parlor in Fleet-Street,

has largely escaped the notice of the American public until now. And for good

reason – the specifics of the case alone, without their corresponding minutiae,

would be enough to shock, offend, and sicken the hearts of any good, decent, and

God-fearing folk.

Sweeney couldn't stifle a chuckle at that.

He skimmed over the delicately-phrased details – really saying nothing more than the absolute basics: that one Sweeney Todd had slain many of his unsuspecting customers and turned their corpses over to Eleanor Lovett, his "red-haired paramour and confederate" (_"Paramour?"_ Nellie scoffed when she read that), who then, in the reporter's words, "fashioned the remains into comestibles for public consumption."

But it was towards the end of the article that Sweeney caught a name that chilled his blood.

The grisly matter attracted official notice when an honorable man, Anthony

Hope, at the time a sailor on the _Bountiful_ moored in London, led police to the

barber's lair, where the officers were met with a most outrageous sight: the

walls and floor positively coated with blood.

Mr. Hope was in the company of one Johanna Turpin –

Sweeney stopped breathing. His eyes lingered on that name; he couldn't read any further for some moments. He felt a hand on his back and knew it was Nellie's; but for the first time in a long while her touch failed to soothe him.

He swallowed, set his jaw, and forced himself to read on:

– one Johanna Turpin, ward of an influential London magistrate, who informed

police that she herself had witnessed the iniquitous Sweeney Todd most

foully and cold-bloodedly murder two persons: a female beggar –

Sweeney's eyes squeezed shut, and his head jerked slightly; but he continued.

– and her own guardian, the magistrate. This young lady bravely led police to

the mechanism by which this black-hearted barber most insidiously disposed of

his victims: an ingeniously-crafted barber's chair and trap-door, which emptied

directly into the depths of the bake house below.

This couldn't be right…how would Johanna know, how would she have seen? Anthony was bringing her to Sweeney; but they hadn't arrived yet. They'd never arrived before he and Nellie had left. They must have gotten there later that night. The only person who could have seen him kill Turpin and…Lucy…had been that strange young lad who'd been hiding in the trunk…

From somewhere far off, he heard Nellie saying his name, but he couldn't react. He didn't care. _It can't be…_

Hoping to find a clearer answer to all this, Sweeney plowed through the rest of the article:

Upon examining the bake house oven, what did police discover but the charred

remains of human bones, teeth, and bits of clothing, such as buttons and shoe

fittings, which would not burn.

Only recently has a brave soul had the courage to come forward with information

regarding the whereabouts of these villains. A lady traveling on the White Star

steamer _Belle Harding_ came forward at peril of her life to inform Scotland Yard

that she observed a couple fitting Todd and Lovett's description on her own trans-Atlantic crossing to New York last year.

And then:

Fall River police are eagerly cooperating in this international quest for justice.

Beyond New York these most pernicious criminals' whereabouts are not

known; but of course they may have moved on to any part of this country.

Why, who knows but that they have taken up residence here in Fall River,

under our very noses, so to speak, and are among us even now. With the

recent daylight murder of Mr. and Mrs. Andrew J. Borden, this reporter can

well believe any evil to lurk among us where least expected.

It was too much. Sweeney owed his life to Anthony Hope; the sailor had been the first close thing to a friend he'd encountered since the first harsh blow of his imprisonment, and now the man had betrayed him. And Johanna…he still didn't know what to think about Johanna…but now he understood why Morse's allies were here – and _that_ was the fact that, as it registered in his mind, finally snapped the barber out of his dark musings.

He breathed hard through his nose as he crumpled the scrap of newsprint in his fist.

"There are stirrings of…_discontent_ in the city tonight," O'Connor was saying. "Rumblings about folks not waiting around for the coppers to do their job right. There's talk of finally taking action."

Sweeney looked up. "Action?..."

O'Connor nodded curtly. "We only just found out in time. At this rate you'll have a mob on this place inside half an hour. Best get your street clothes on and grab what belongings you can. After tonight, you won't be coming back."

Sweeney smiled bitterly as he turned to go in search of a shirt. "Do the world a favor and it wants to burn your house down," he muttered to himself.

* * *

They dressed as hastily as they could while Toby fetched the bags that had been packed and waiting since Fleet's visit. Sweeney of course emerged first, and immediately flew down to collect some things from his shop. In her urgency to get out of the house Nellie wasn't far behind, and when she stepped back into the parlor she saw O'Connor alone, waiting for her.

"The others have gone downstairs," he said, quickly leading her from the room. "We're taking your bags so you won't be slowed down." Nellie started to ask how he and his cronies knew where they'd be going; but she was cut off when O'Connor said "First thing, get to David Anthony, he'll be waiting with his Brougham up by the mills. He'll take you from there."

Sweeney was waiting in the bakery, pacing and glancing out the windows, and he looked up anxiously when he heard Nellie coming down the steps. He was at her side instantly, grasping her arm, leading her through the kitchen, to the back door. She couldn't be sure – it might have been her imagination – but she thought she heard raised voices beyond the walls, men shouting far down the street.

"Here," she heard O'Connor say; and when she looked he was handing Sweeney a pistol and a small bag about the size of a coin purse. Sweeney passed the bag off to Nellie – it clinked heavily when she took it, and she assumed it contained spare ammunition. Lacking a good place to store this, she stuffed it down her bodice as she watched Sweeney checking the weapon confidently, expertly, making sure it was loaded. He did not conceal it, but kept it in his right hand while his left grasped Nellie's arm again.

"Thank you, O'Connor," said Sweeney, marching towards the door, where Toby was waiting, leaning out the doorway and appearing to scan the area. O'Connor touched his cap and opened his mouth to reply; but just then Toby turned and hissed "I see men comin' up from South Main, maybe five or six of 'em!"

O'Connor swore. "They must be going in smaller groups to fan out and cover the whole city. We'll stay behind, try to draw their attention, make it look like you're still here."

"Much obliged for that," said Nellie, as she was being pulled out the door by Sweeney, aided by O'Connor gently pushing her in that direction. "God speed to ya now" was all the Irishman said in response, and the last Nellie saw of him and his accomplices they were drawing their own firearms and heading back into the shop. Then the door was closed behind them, and they were tearing down Morgan, away from South Main, hugging the buildings, trying to keep to the shadows, heading not so much towards the mills as away from the angry shouting that seemed to be coming from everywhere at once.

* * *

It was sheer luck that they managed not to run into anyone in the streets to this point, and Nellie knew it.

"Sweeney."

No response.

"Damn it, Sweeney!..."

He still gave no indication that he'd even heard her. He continued running full-tilt, gripping her arm 'till she thought he must cut off the blood flow; her feet were screaming, and a terrible stitch was starting to form in her side. When they came to a corner and were about to cross into the open street, Sweeney suddenly stopped – so abruptly that Nellie slammed into him with a mild curse. He held up a hand, signaling they needed to wait, and peered around the corner.

"What d'you – "

He cut her off by pressing her into an angle of the building they were sheltering against. Only then could she hear the raised voices of angry men, and they sounded too close.

"There are about ten men up ahead, not half a block away," Sweeney hissed. "We'll need to stay here 'till they pass."

She slumped against the wall, sucking air, and Toby, finally catching up, stood by her, panting, leaning his hands on his knees. Only Todd seemed unaffected, barely winded. She wondered if it was his intense focus or the bare force of his rage-fueled energy that drove him on.

"We're gettin' too old for this kind of thing, dear," said Nellie, as she removed her shoes and set about breaking off the heels.

Sweeney merely cocked an eyebrow at her.

"Lemme help you with that, Mum," Toby gasped, slouching over to her, taking one of her shoes, and setting to work on it.

When she had succeeded in her task, she turned to Sweeney. "How'd you ever learn your way around a gun, by the way?" she asked in a low tone, taking advantage of their lull to attempt to satisfy her burning curiosity.

To her surprise, Sweeney's eyes cut over to Toby before he answered.

"I were put in charge of guardin' a work detail," he said quickly, as though trying to get this story over with as fast as possible.

Nellie was astonished. Chiefly because he'd never spoken of his time in prison before – she only now realized that she really knew nothing about it. "How'd you land that, love?"

Again he glanced at Toby, and shook his head. "Long story. They give me a pistol to keep order."

She waited for him to continue, but he turned away, glancing around the corner.

"And?" she prodded softly.

He didn't turn around. "And I kept order."

The tone of his voice let her know the explanation was done.

"Here ya go, Mum."

She turned to find Toby proffering her now-defaced, but much more practical, shoe. "Thank you, love," she said as she put it on.

"They're gone. Better hurry," Sweeney rumbled – and before he'd finished speaking, a loud report rang out from the direction of South Main.

All three of them froze. Nellie knew it was O'Connor and his men, fending off however many upright citizens had descended on their former residence. A distant sound of glass shattering – more gunfire – human voices blended into a babbling roar not (_how really bloody ironic_) unlike the sound of waves lapping a shoreline.

Sweeney suddenly placed one strong hand on Nellie's shoulder and the other on Toby's. "Most of 'em might be at the shop, but that's no guarantee there won't be others scattered about," he said. "I'm gonna need you to keep up, Toby, no mistake."

"Count on me, sir."

"Good man." Then he turned to Nellie. "If anything happens to me, I want you to go on ahead."

She waved him off. "Don't be ridiculous, I'm not gonna leave you – "

"_Nellie,"_ he said; and she was shocked into silence by the uncharacteristic sense of desperation in his voice. "I need to know you'd go on. If I fall…just take Toby and get yourselves out."

A harsh shout sounded nearby, jolting her. They didn't have much time, so she nodded, knowing it would satisfy him; but she had no intention of doing as he asked. _Doesn't he know I'd want to die with him?..._

Sweeney withdrew the pistol again. "Let's go," he said, gripping Nellie's arm – but this time, rather than run, he moved slowly, cautiously, into the street.

Nellie was glancing side to side, Toby walking backwards most of the time, searching the darkness behind them. So she didn't see their assailant until he was right up on them.

"_Damnable murdering beast!"_

Sweeney barely had time to react before the bloke was on him, swinging some kind of club straight at his head. The barber's first reaction was to shove Nellie back away from him, but that decision cost him any advantage he might have seized and the club connected with his temple with a resounding, sickening _crack_. As he fell, the gun went clattering across the cobbles.

Then, even as Sweeney was attempting to rise, their attacker turned his attention on Nellie, raising his weapon again. She stepped to the side, trying to get around to Sweeney, and only just missed the club as it arced towards her head. The momentum of the swing threw its wielder off balance – Nellie supposed he was slightly drunk – and with split-second timing she closed in, caught hold of his wrist, and pivoted, throwing him past her. The bastard didn't fall, though; and he turned in a rage, screaming, charging like a bull towards Sweeney, who was just managing to struggle to his feet –

_POP!_

Nellie let out a yelp of shock and surprise as the man's face exploded only a few feet away from her. His feet went out from under him, and he crashed heavily to the ground.

It hadn't been Sweeney; the gun had been knocked away from him. Nellie turned about to find the source of the shot –

Toby was sprawled on the cobblestones, holding his arms straight out in front of him, the gun barrel smoking at the end of his violently shaking hands.

Nellie didn't know who to go to first – Sweeney, who was now swaying on his knees; or Toby, who'd just killed a man.

She assessed Sweeney's condition first, and decided he'd be all right for the moment – after all, she supposed he'd had much worse than a clock to the head in his time – and went to Toby.

His eyes were wide, his breathing quick and shallow. Poor lad was in shock.

"Toby dear?" Nellie soothed, placing a maternal hand on the lad's arm. "It's all right now, you've saved us. Put the gun down now, love."

Slowly, he turned to her, and frantically shook his head. He maintained his hold on the gun.

"Darlin'," Nellie said carefully, "it's all right. You need to give it back to Mr. Todd. Come on now."

With a slightly trembling hand, she reached for the pistol. Toby's hands were fastened on its grip.

"That was a right proper shot, that was," she tried, smiling, smoothing his hair. "He's gone now, love, nothin' to be afraid of anymore. Come on."

Painfully slow, the boy's hands released the gun, and Nellie took it. She gazed on her son with sorrow – he knew what death and murder were; he knew that his own guardians indulged in it. But to kill a man yourself…that was an entirely different matter. She knew it would be a long time before he could come to grips with what he'd done tonight. But she was proud of him – he'd protected them, both her and Sweeney, without a second thought. There would be plenty of time to tell him that, though…

She turned at the sound of Sweeney's groan. He was getting to his feet, but unsteadily. She rushed over and slipped her arm around his ribs, supporting him.

"Told you to leave me," he slurred.

"Yes, dear."

"Told you."

"Now love, you know I'd never do that, come on."

"Said you would."

"Yeah, well – "

"You lied to me."

She cast a sideways glance at him. "Now let's not start that business again, Mr. T…"

She realized she was still holding the gun in her right hand. With the condition Sweeney was in, and the state of Toby at the moment, she knew she would have to be the one to take over the active defense. "Bugger," she muttered to herself…

Sweeney groaned again and brought his hand to his head. "Let me look at that, dear," Nellie coaxed.

His wound was ugly – bleeding profusely, matting his hair with thickening gore. Bracing herself with the hope that it couldn't be as bad as it looked, she walked him to a nearby wall and propped him up against it while she ripped a strip of fabric from her skirt and wrapped it around his head. "There you are, dear," she said, "you're the height of fashion now."

As she gripped his waist again, she could hear that sea-like sound, the sound of the mob, drawing nearer. She supposed they'd finished with the shop – spared a thought for O'Connor and his friends – and hoisted Sweeney against her. "Hang on to me, love," she said, and he slung his arm around her shoulders. "We'll get through this…Toby!" she called. "We can't stay here, love…"

Light began seeping around a corner down the block, throwing shadows against the walls of the buildings, and the din was growing louder…

"Toby! We have to move _now!_"

The lad scrambled to his feet, but Nellie could tell he was still numb. That was all right – so long as he followed them, she didn't care what was going through his head. That could all be sorted out later; for the moment they just needed to get out…

As she started forward, she realized that some of the light wasn't coming from the moving crowd, but from a stable location, illuminating the sky a flickering orange, obscuring the moon with smoke…they'd set fire to the shop…

And she gaped in horror at the black carriage that was suddenly rumbling down the street, bearing down on them. If vehicles were in on this, it was over. There'd be no way they could outrun them, even if Todd wasn't injured…

"Shit!" she breathed, stumbling forward, feeling Sweeney quicken his pace and tighten his arm around her, as the shot rang out from the carriage.

"Nellie, let me go. I'm slowing you down."

She clenched her teeth, feverishly casting her eyes about for any alley or side-street they could duck into. The carriage was closing in, pulling alongside them – another shot, and the brick of the wall above Sweeney's head burst into powder. Nellie could now see a silver emblem emblazoned on the carriage door – it couldn't be anyone other than the Fall River Police themselves…

Sure enough, as she kept her eyes on the door, she saw a uniformed arm reach out, the hand gripping a pistol. She raised her own weapon, aiming as best she could into the space above the door, and squeezed the trigger – there was a man's stifled scream, the arm convulsed, the gun fired and dropped, and the carriage veered off, heading away from them. Toby dove forward and, to Nellie's astonishment, grabbed up the gun.

But the first wave of vigilantes was coming into sight now, tearing down the street. And Nellie still hadn't found a detour…Suddenly Sweeney became a dragging weight at her side, and a stab of fear shot through her. "God, don't pass out on me, Mr. T," she said aloud. "not now!..."

"Nellie…"

"Stay with me, Mr. Todd…"

Then he dropped his full weight, and she stumbled; trying to hold on to him, she felt something pull in her shoulder, and cried out.

"Leave me," he said, slumping against a nearby wall.

Tears came into her eyes as she knelt before him. "Listen to me," she said. "I am not leaving you. I'll die with you, Sweeney Todd. Bleedin' hell, if you don't know that by now…"

Those were no hollow words of exaggerated emotion – she knew she'd have to make good on them, because the mob was closing in, and there was no escape. She certainly couldn't support Sweeney anymore anyhow, not with her shoulder, whatever had happened to it…

She turned and locked eyes with Toby, and as she was about to speak, to tell him the same thing Todd had told her – leave, get out, save yourself – he shook his head, and she knew it would be useless to argue. Toby threw himself on his knees and locked her in a fierce hug, muttering "I love you, Mum. I'm stayin' right here."

He'd never said that to her before. She kissed his cheek and latched onto him, and said "I love you, son. Now…enough of this…we're not goin' down without a fight, hey? Get behind me now."

He shook his head and raised the gun he'd picked up from the police, just as Nellie saw another carriage pull into view.

_This is the end…_

She and Toby exchanged glances, and a silent agreement seemed to pass between them. Nellie positioned herself in front of Sweeney, sheltering him as best she could, and she and her son raised their weapons in tandem…

They were firing indiscriminately into the advancing crowd, and some fell; but this only seemed to fuel the others' fury, and they kept coming on like mad rabid animals…

The carriage careened past the onrushing mob, nearly capsizing from its combined speed and the violent steering of its driver…it was almost on them, blocking them from the crowd now…Nellie raised the gun, aiming at the driver –

"_For the love of God, Mrs. Lovett, get in!"_

It was David Anthony.

* * *

My dear Mr. Todd and Mrs. Lovett,

Congratulations on achieving your deliverance. I am sorry I could not have

notified you sooner of our good citizens' intentions.

Mr. Anthony is driving you to Providence, Rhode Island. In this envelope,

accompanying this letter, you will find three first-class tickets for the train to

Albany, New York. You will also find further instructions for your travels – it

will be best to transfer trains as frequently as possible, until you arrive in Iowa,

at which point my friends will take care of you.

I owe you both much for what you've done for my nieces, and I will not forget

that debt in the days to come. Until we meet again – Godspeed.

Yours ever,

John V. Morse.

Nellie sighed, re-folded the letter, and placed it back on the carriage seat where she'd found it. "Wonder where Iowa is," she muttered absently.

"Nowhere near the sea, my love."

She looked across at Sweeney. David had helped him clean his wound, and they'd stopped at the home of one of his associates for some ice, which Sweeney was now holding to his to his temple as he smirked at Nellie.

"Ah well," she said, smiling, simply glad to have him with her and in one piece. "Someday, hey?"

"Maybe."

Sweeney had been looking at her rather oddly ever since he'd come back to his proper senses. In fact, he hadn't taken his eyes off her. It was an expression she couldn't quite read; and knowing her lover like she did, she was certain she'd never know what it indicated.

The Brougham slowed, and Nellie looked out the window to see Providence Station, quiet at this time of night – early morning now, actually. She was glad the rip in her skirt wasn't too obvious – she could only imagine what would happen if they actually _looked_ like they'd just escaped a city full of maddened, mindless vigilantes…

David stopped the carriage, and the three of them piled out.

"You'll just make your train," the butcher said, a small smile lighting his boyish face.

"Can't thank you enough, Mr. Anthony," said Sweeney, tossing the makeshift ice packet back into the carriage.

"Think nothing of it. After what you've done for my Lizzie…" His voice trailed off.

"Best of luck to you both," said Nellie brightly. "Sorry we won't make it to the weddin'."

And then David Anthony looked at her, his emerald eyes dark with sadness, and said, "I'm afraid that won't be happening after all, Mrs. Lovett."

"What – why ever not? What're you talkin' about?"

He shook his head. "It'd look bad, wouldn't it? It was hardly a secret that we wished to marry, and now…well, her parents are murdered and then all of a sudden we act on that wish? No. It's better that we just…"

The poor man couldn't go on.

"_All aboard!"_

Sweeney took Nellie's hand; but she didn't move. "You mean…well then…what was the point for you?"

"To set her free, Mrs. Lovett," he answered. "That's all I really wanted, when all was said and done. So long as she's free of him…I can live with that."

"_All aboard!"_

"Nell – "

She nodded – gave the butcher's arm a squeeze – and accompanied Sweeney and Toby to the platform. There were tears in her eyes, and she wasn't sure why…perhaps the excitement of the night's events was finally catching up to her…

They found their compartment easily, and lo and behold, their bags were waiting for them.

"That Mr. Morse has his ways, don't he, Mum?" said Toby, grinning weakly and flopping down into the seat.

"S'pose so, dear," she answered, with a sniff.

Then, with a jolt, the train moved forward. Nellie made for a seat, but was stopped by Sweeney's strong hand on her shoulder. She turned to him, and the look in his eyes astounded her: it was a look she'd so often dreamed of seeing…then again, it was dark in the compartment; she could just be imagining it, especially considering the mental stress she was still trying to recover from…

"I'll never forget what you did for me tonight – what you said," he murmured.

"Oh," she laughed. "So you do remember all that, do y – "

She was cut off by the firm pressure of his soft, insistent lips on hers. He held the kiss for a long while, and kept her in his embrace when it ended.

They were bound for yet another new life, another start from scratch in an unfamiliar place. But she knew they'd be all right, as long as they had each other. If no other good had come of that terrible night, at least that one thing had been proven beyond a doubt – they would die for each other. And that fact alone far surpassed even her fondest dreams.

* * *


	14. Epilogue

**A/N: If you haven't read ch. 13 yet, go back and read that first...**

Trains are just so romantic, don't you think?...

* * *

**Epilogue:**

**On the Train. Mr. Todd Confesses the Truth. The Thoughts of Young Tobias Ragg.**

_Now Eros shakes my soul, a wind on the mountain overwhelming the oaks. -- Sappho _

"Toby," said Sweeney, pulling some money from his pocket and pressing it into the boy's hand without bothering to sort through it. All American money looked the same to him. "Run down to the dining car and get yourself…something or other."

"I'm not hungry, Mr. T."

Todd smiled coldly. "Well then run down to the dining car and just sit there, and don't come back for at least ten minutes."

"Yes _sir_."

The compartment door closed behind him.

For a minute, Sweeney just stared across the compartment at Nellie, who was occupied with the scenery flashing past them. But she seemed to feel his eyes on her, because she finally turned, met his gaze, and said slyly, "What're you after, Mr. Todd?"

Sweeney allowed himself the luxury of a complacent smile as he leaned back, reached into his jacket, and withdrew the little black box. "Try this on," he said, tossing it across to her.

She caught it deftly and looked at him, her eyes questioning. Sweeney just sat back, arms crossed, smirking, awaiting the look on her face as she opened the box –

She gasped very softly, and blinked at the ring as if she wasn't sure it was really there.

"Marry me," said Sweeney.

He'd imagined, when he'd rehearsed this scene in his head, that she'd fly at him, giggle hysterically, tackle him to the ground. Something.

But she just sat there, wordless, staring at the ring and wearing a little smile that was almost sad.

"You don't have to, y'know," she said – _closing the box!_

Todd's heart lurched horribly. He wasn't sure he'd heard her correctly. He certainly _hoped_ he hadn't. "What?" he said, his voice barely a whisper.

Her eyes remained on the closed box as she answered him. "Well…we've been playin' at bein' married for more than a year now, with our fake names and all. It's not like this'd be for propriety's sake or anythin'. We can just keep on pretendin' wherever we go. So…why? Why're you askin' me, when we could just keep playin' along?"

Only then did she look up at him, and his eyes dropped instantly, unable to face her. His head was starting to feel heavy and blurry. Never, in his worst nightmares, had he anticipated such a reaction. What did she mean by all this?...Was she refusing him?...had she stopped loving him?...

He was utterly stunned. He was asking her to _marry him,_ for God's sake! Wasn't that what she wanted?...

_You know what she wants, you great fool..._

He cleared his throat, got up, crossed the compartment, sat beside her, and took her hands – one still holding the box – in his, noticing, as he reached for her, that he was trembling slightly and hating himself for it. He tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone dry. He could feel moisture collecting well enough on his brow, though...

All this time they'd been lovers…she must have known how he felt; she must have been able to tell from the way he touched her, spoke to her; she must have seen it in his eyes…And yet he'd never said the words. Because those words were sacred to him, and he'd always felt that if he ever pronounced them again after….He'd be committing sacrilege. Even if he meant them.

_Especially if I mean them._

He was going cold, but he had to say something. His brow was furrowed as if in intense concentration; he still couldn't look up at her.

So, in an attempt to collect himself, he closed his eyes for a moment –

_leaning on the rail breathing in the sea_

_forgiving him_

_ivory handles_

_hands in his hair, murmuring, ravenous_

_"brought you some tea, love"_

_smiling to greet him_

_soothing him out of nightmare_

_fiery tresses falling around him_

_dark eyes on him in the firelight_

"I love you."

He lifted his head and found himself gazing once more into those eyes that had first captivated him so long ago.

"I love you, Eleanor," he whispered, barely enough to be heard, his lips hardly moving. "I never wanted to. Tried like hell not to. But…damn it…I want…"

He heard her breath catch, and her eyes were searching his. And he realized that he meant these words more than he'd ever meant anything in his life.

"I want you to be my wife."

And then he watched her refuse him.

Her eyes squeezed shut and her face contorted with what Todd was sure must be anguish, and her head drooped forward as her body shook with sobs.

His arms were around her instantly, almost reflexively, pulling her into him; but he knew he wouldn't be able to keep her from leaving if she didn't want to stay. She was his light, the only beauty and warmth and peace that had existed for him in seventeen years of darkness, and he was going to lose all of that, lose her forever; she would get off the train at Albany and he'd never, ever see her again.

That thought was the only thing he ever feared.

He was convinced now that she was crying because she didn't know how to let him down. There could be no other explanation: she wouldn't be acting like this if she loved him, if she wanted him. He felt as if his eyes were on fire, and he could barely speak for the knot in his throat that felt like a stone.

"I haven't always treated you like I should," he managed. "I'm not a good man. I'm not the man you deserve. I never will be. But…"

She was still weeping as he cradled her head against his chest, her hot, bitter tears falling onto his lap. And then suddenly, shockingly, the truth overthrew him – not so much a new revelation as an acceptance, an acknowledgment of what his heart had been keeping for what felt like always. How ironic that it was only when he'd lost her that he could finally admit –

"I've never loved anyone like I love you."

He was in such physical pain, between his unshed tears and his breaking heart, that he could no longer speak. And it was in that silence that he heard the small word _"yes"_, over and over and over, choked out amongst his Eleanor's sobs – which, he now understood, were really the sweet tears of a joy much too long delayed.

* * *

Sweeney was smiling at her as he gently took the box from her hand – she'd forgotten she was still holding on to it – and slipped the ring on her finger. So overpowered was she by the torrent of emotion shaking her very soul that she marveled how she withstood it. She thought she might die in that moment – the moment she'd dreamed of, longed but never dared allow herself to hope for, and finally given up on. It couldn't be happening, yet here it was, here _he_ was, raising her hand to his lips and kissing the finger that wore the ring; and she wondered when he'd started looking at her with such obvious love, how many weeks or months his eyes had been gazing on her this way, and she'd been missing it, because she'd made herself believe it couldn't be there.

No, it wasn't Benjamin Barker's smile – there was no trace of that man in the countenance of the man before her. There was no one in that smile but Sweeney Todd – the way Sweeney Todd _would_ smile, without the expression crossing into a smirk: small, and sad, and very tired, but reaching far deeper than the smiles of so many others who took the gesture for granted. It was the most beautiful thing Nellie had ever seen, and as he took her in his arms she knew she would never be happier in her life than when he would look at her just like this.

* * *

Toby clocked a respectful _fifteen_ minutes by his pocket watch (Mr. Todd would owe him for this) and headed back to the compartment.

When he opened the door, there were Mum and Mr. Todd, close in each other's arms, kissing like there was no tomorrow. Good Lord, couldn't they be left alone for fifteen minutes? They seemed so thoroughly lost in each other that Toby thought he could walk right into the compartment and start doing a vaudeville number and they wouldn't notice.

He saw, when Mrs. Lovett's hand slipped from Mr. Todd's hair onto his shoulder, that she was wearing the ring. Well, Toby had always known she'd accept, no surprise there...He _was_ happy for them, especially for his mum; but honestly. This was sickening.

Toby just smiled, shook his head, closed the door, and sat in the dining car until dinner.

**FIN**

* * *


End file.
